


Token of Friendship

by squire



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Angst, Canonical Minor Character Death, Cultural Differences, Cultural Misunderstandings, Epistolary, Hobbit Wedding, Hobbit folklore, I'm making up Dwarven lore, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining, Poetry, Romance, Songs, TWT (Timeline what Timeline), retirement fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-15
Updated: 2015-05-19
Packaged: 2018-03-23 02:02:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 23,919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3750793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/squire/pseuds/squire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bilbo had to leave before the unwanted love he nurtured would crush his heart with the weight of the entire Mountain. Even if Thorin did return his affections, according to Dwarven law, Bilbo would never become anything more than a bedwarmer, stealing moments of closeness under the cover of night and sneaking out of the King’s chambers in the wee hours of the morning, forever hiding his true feelings under the façade of a friendship worth of legend. </p><p>He couldn’t do that to Thorin, and he couldn’t do that to himself. </p><p>However, heavy is the head under a heavy crown, they say. And maybe, Thorin would be the one who'd need just a little push this time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Departure

**Author's Note:**

> My first fic in The Hobbit fandom. I hope you'll like it :) 
> 
> Technical note: For the purpose of storytelling, I accelerated some Canonical events. In the Book canon, Frodo is born when Bilbo is 88. In my story, it happens when Bilbo's still in his fifties.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to Wendy for her help with the first chapter.

 

“Thorin!”

Bilbo slid to his knees next to the collapsed form of the King, ignoring the cold bite of ice on his battered feet. Thorin’s eyes snapped up to him as if he couldn’t believe the sight. Shaking fingers slid across the fabric of Bilbo’s sleeve in a feeble grasp, smearing it with fresh blood.

“Bilbo,” the King gasped, “I’m glad you’re here. I wish to part from you in friendship–”

Bilbo didn’t listen. He couldn’t listen. His awareness of his surroundings narrowed down to the wounded man in front of him, the only spot of warmth and colour in a world of grasping cold and ruthless white, and all he could hear was a soundless scream of the frantic prayers and pleas in his head, a desperate litany of _No, please, don’t, not him, not now._

“–you did what only a true friend would do–”

Bilbo has never felt so helpless in his life, and never so alight with rage at the unfairness of it all. He wanted so speak, to ask Thorin how to save him, to follow his leader’s orders one last time, as if this belatedly-found allegiance could atone for the fact that Bilbo had cast away his membership in Thorin’s company and acted on his own, foolishly and rashly, only for it to lead to this, to result in this...

The pain was blinding him, clawing its way out of his trembling body, casting a heavy ring around his throat that tightened further with every word he scrambled for and found lacking. His chest constricted in agony from all that he wanted to say – shout – yell, and yet he couldn’t push a single word past his lips, muted by terror and despair and terrible, bitter remorse.

 _A true friend? More like a lovesick fool_ , a voice in Bilbo’s head offered readily, bringing forth a memory of the sneering remarks of his Baggins relatives with such clarity that Bilbo’s long held breath finally escaped him in a burst of hysterical laughter. He bit on his tongue, tears prickling in the corners of his eyes, and the sharp sting of pain further helped to snap him out of his shocked stupor. Beneath him, Thorin looked up to him, with eyes full of confusion and something else, something that looked a bit like hurt and a lot like sad, beaten resignation.

“No, Thorin.” Bilbo found his words at last, while he patted him down, palms skimming over cuts and bruises. “That just won’t do. If I had but one last breath left, I’d give it to you. I would. Friends indeed! So don’t you dare, Thorin, don’t you–”

Bilbo’s speech came to a halt when he pressed his hand to the wound in Thorin’s abdomen and Thorin didn’t even twitch. Terrified, Bilbo snapped his eyes back to Thorin’s but found them already closed. The broad chest was still moving, barely, with a faint breath, but as Bilbo watched, paleness began to spread across Thorin’s features, the beckoning kiss of death.

He curled himself upon his King’s body, determined to listen to the last beats of that fierce, brave, beloved heart, even if they should be the last thing he would ever hear. He did not feel the sudden rush of air around him, the grasp and lift of giant claws, not even the speed of flight that dried the tears on his cheeks, or the call of the deep under them as the great eagle carried them.

When he woke up later, it was to the emptiness of a small tent amidst the sounds and smells of a healing camp. Gandalf’s staff and his tattered hat rested on the man-sized cot across from Bilbo’s own bundle of straw and blankets. Bilbo sat up, fighting dizziness and nausea, and absently noted that the worst of his – mostly superficial – wounds had been tended to. Stumbling every other step and cursing his shaking knees, he made to the tent’s door and poked his head out.

The battle had to be over. He couldn’t hear any more of that deafening troll roars or goblin shrieks or the clashing of metal-on-metal. The night was approaching, the sun setting in angry red as if the Western sky soaked up blood so needlessly spilled on the battlefield, and in the last remnants of daylight, Bilbo could just about make out the banner of Erebor raised proudly above one of the tents, flapping in the fresh wind and matching the star-spotted blue of dusk with the royal blue and silver of the Durin’s line.

 _Good_ , Bilbo thought to himself. _He’s alive_.

 

***

 

_Three months later_

Bilbo stuffed another over-sized handkerchief into his backpack and not for the first – but for what was soon to be going the last – time he swore softly at the obnoxious height of the Dwarven furniture. Packing would be much easier if he could only fold his clothing on a reasonably-sized bed. Bilbo’s back was growing tired with so much bending to the floor.

On the other hand, having to sort out his travel supplies on the floor meant he had an excuse to not to lift his eyes to meet the sad gaze of the silver-haired Dwarf at the door.

“It’s such a pity you’re leaving, my lad.”

 _Of course, why should you be making it easier for me_ , Bilbo thought to himself. Then he imagined a party of well-meaning Dwarrows _trying_ to cheer him up, and he shuddered. It was better like this. He could manage a little pity party. He had a half of a lifetime with his Baggins relatives to prepare him for just that.

“I’m sorry too,” he said instead. “I made some good friends here.” He eyed another handkerchief. The little initials in one corner looked suspiciously like they had been embroidered with surgical stitches. “At least of some of you.”

Balin sighed. “Of all of us, lad, never let yourself think otherwise.”

Bilbo snorted and put a little wooden warrior figure in one of the side pockets of the pack. His cousin Drogo had been talking about marriage before Bilbo left. Perhaps he would be back in time for the naming party of their first-born child.

Hobbits didn’t muck around where love was concerned.

Balin refolded his hands. “There are stories of friendships such as the one between you and our King, Bilbo. Epic tales of bonds that took root in adversity, blossomed in danger, hardened in loss, and surpassed even death.”

“Ours didn’t have to surpass death,” Bilbo pointed out softly.

“Not for the lack of trying on Thorin’s part, surely,” Balin laughed and Bilbo couldn’t hold back a little chuckle, breaking the morose air he was so bent on maintaining.

“The friendship between you will pass into legend, Bilbo. Isn’t it pity to throw it away? For Thorin’s sake, I would–”  

Bilbo let the shirt he was folding fall to the floor and straightened his back. “And what of my sake?” he huffed.

“Thorin names me his friend, and I know – I know it’s far more than any Baggins deserves. I know that anyone should be proud to be remembered as a legend. But you’ll forgive me – to me – to me he is...”

Bilbo trailed off, courage once again leaving him. It was an empty argument, a fight that he could never win. He delivered a hard punch to the soft contents of his pack, trying to make more room inside and relieving at least some pent-up frustration.

He didn’t need to look into Balin’s eyes to feel his kind gaze upon himself. “I know, lad. Yours is a brave heart.”

“Foolish heart, you mean. Fool of a Took does that make me, even though I may be a Baggins,” Bilbo muttered and sniffed against the suspicious prickle in the corners of his eyes.

“And yet!” he burst out after a moment. “Even if the daft Dwarf felt even a fraction of – listen, Balin.” Bilbo looked up and tugged viciously at the diamond-lined neckline of that light-as-a-feather-hard-as-dragon-scales _atrocity_ he was forced to sleep in lately because _some_ of Dain’s kinsmen remaining in Erebor didn’t take the whole Arkenstone debacle with such generous forgiveness as the King did.

“I’m not completely daft, you know, oblivious to everything Dwarvish.”

Balin’s eyebrows rose.

“Dwarven.” Bilbo continued without pause. “Whatever. He gave me this–” he tugged at the blasted thing once more for illustration “–well, I didn’t know at the time, but I did my research. Do you Dwarves normally go about giving out things worth probably more than the entire Shire as _tokens of friendship_?!”

Balin sagged into the doorframe. “Thorin never allowed himself to nurture friendships outside his closest kin, and he carried burdens heavy enough to make him blind in the face of love.”

“He doesn’t know his own heart, that’s what you’re saying.”

Yet that wasn’t the worst of it. That wasn’t the reason Bilbo was kicking his backpack around his Erebor quarters and putting together every bit of memory to carry back into the Shire. Stupid obliviousness was something he could put up with; he had been putting up with it for the entirety of their journey. There was another obstacle, and there wasn’t a way around it.

“And even if he knew, he wouldn’t act on it,” Bilbo concluded with an air of finality.

“Thorin is descendant of the line of Durin,” Balin said, as if it explained everything.  

“And gentlehobbits of the Shire simply aren’t eligible suitors,” Bilbo muttered darkly, even though he knew that accusation be not the whole truth. Not by half.

Hobbits lived in a rich and hospitable land, blessed with fertility that none of the other races in Middle Earth could match. Five, six, even eight wee fauntlings toddling around their mother’s skirts weren’t an unusual sight. To settle down and build a home without the prospect of children of their own was never a big deal in the Shire. One of Bilbo’s Took cousins married a lad from the Chubbs family not a year prior and already they were raising children of the her late sister, who died in birth the previous winter. Of her other five children, only two were old enough to help their father at work. Fostering children or raising them in wardenship was so accustomed throughout the Shire that no child ever had to grow up parentless or in poverty, and no hobbit lad or lass was ever forced to marry anyone else than whom their heart desired.

Dwarrows, on the other hand... They often said that Mahal carved them from stone, and from his viewpoint Bilbo could only concur. Many were dispassionate, many married their craft and their hearts never felt the stir of mortal love, the eyes of many never shone with fire from within, forever reflecting only the gleam of gold and gems. Dwarven clans and nations multiplied slowly, and there weren’t many things they valued above their heritage, family name, and bloodlines.

Mahal forbid a bloodline should come to an end. When a Dwarrow decided to marry, having a child of his own blood from that marriage was a matter of pride.

Thorin was the King Under The Mountain, and as such, he had to set example for his kin.

That’s why Bilbo had to leave before the unwanted love he nurtured would crush his heart with the weight of the entire Mountain. Even if Thorin did return his affections, according to Dwarven law, Bilbo would never become anything more than a bedwarmer, stealing moments of closeness under the cover of night and sneaking out of the King’s chambers in the wee hours of the morning, forever hiding his true feelings under the façade of a friendship worth of legend.

He couldn’t do that to Thorin, and he couldn’t do that to himself.

 

***

 

_It seems we drank our cups of time to the last one drop_

_Time that rang with merriment like silversmithing shop_

_Time that stung with grief like nettles lining woodland trails_

_Things I wish be lost but yet my memory never fails_

_Until your voice will grow too faint to sing the song I hear_

_Whisper’d from the empty corners and you nowhere near_

 

Balin found the Lament on a half-burned piece of parchment behind the grate in the hearth in Thorin’s chambers two days after the first anniversary of Bilbo’s departure.

He kept it close and never showed it to anyone.

 

 

 


	2. Years in Between

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wizards meddle; they always have done and they will always do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So much thanks for Mildred Bobbin with this one (and hopefully, the ones after this). It's still looked over by my grammar-stick-beating group; so I may nitpick it a bit here and there in the future.

_Float thee O’Wild Rose, far and more_

_Float thee away from my feet_

_Wherever thou shalt come ashore_

_There shall I and my love meet_

 

The faint echo of singing from the Gamgee’s smial drifted through the window, carried on the slight breeze, and Bilbo closed his eyes for a bit where he sat in his favourite armchair. The simple melody rose and fell in gentle swinging rhythm, in perfect sync with the rocking of the cradle, and Bilbo didn’t doubt that only a few repetitions in Bell’s sweet voice more and little Samwise would be sleeping like a babe – a babe that he, indeed, was.  

 

Sighing, Bilbo got up and went to the kitchen, poured warm milk into a large cup, put the small pot to the back of the stove and fiddled with the seal on a new jar of honey. Warm honeyed milk was his mother’s infallible recipe for calming jittered nerves, along with the old Tookish lullaby she used to be so fond of. Bilbo wondered if somehow his neighbour’s wife Bell knew that little Samwise wasn’t the only one who would benefit from her singing today.

 

It was a very old song and its melody made it an ideal lullaby, even though it originally served as a tradition for young maidens’ tradition. Unmarried girls would make wreaths of wild roses, throw them into a pond or a lake, and watch how far they would float. The farther the flower floated, the farther away the maiden’s future groom lived. Bilbo thought that perhaps this custom had some meaning back in the Wandering Days, but it was of little importance now when the farthest village a Hobbit lass could marry into was Bree, and even that was considered quite scandalous. Even Belladona Took, the notorious adventurer, settled down in the end for the quiet, round, and solid Bungo Baggins of the Shire. But still she would love the song, and she would sing it to her son, and now Bilbo couldn’t help but smile wistfully at the irony of it. He never went to throw rose wreaths into a lake, and yet his metaphorical wild rose floated farthest of them all.

 

 

_Should thou reach farther than boats would dare_

_Down on the silver lake_

_Long journey would my heart have to fare_

_And a new home shall I make_

 

Bilbo sighed again and turned to face the source of his discomfort at last – the thick sealed envelope that arrived earlier today, together with the merchants from Bree. It was given to them, they said, by some Dwarves on their way to the Blue Mountains; and Bilbo didn’t need to guess who the sender was. The royal seal of Erebor in dark blue wax was unbroken and shining clean, every corner of the envelope still sharp, the thick paper spotless white. This letter was well looked after on its journey, carried by someone who cared.

 

Sipping a little from his cup, Bilbo sat back down, wiggled a bit between the cushions, and broke the waxen seal.

 

 

_Dear Bilbo,_

_I hope all is well in the Shire, in your home. My thoughts and the thoughts of the entire Company are with you – forgive me if I won’t relay their greetings and messages word-by-word; I fear the Mountain would run out of paper and yet they would still have something to tell you. Stay assured that the general consensus is that, all those years ago, you might have vacated your chambers in Erebor and left us in favour of the West; but the place you’ve carved for yourself in our hearts is still holding onto you and in that regard, you shall never be truly parted from us. Barely a day passes without your name coming up in conversation, and it is as if your feet still padded silently through the corridors and staircases of our Kingdom, as if your voice still rang in echoes through our halls and chambers – only the shadow you cast on the walls has grown somewhat larger than life, magnified by the impressive tales of your great deeds of which my tongue-wagging sister-sons are so fond._

 

Bilbo chuckled. There _was_ a certain Ballad with a suspiciously alliterated name that he caught glimpses of during those months before he left; but the boys (especially Kíli and Ori) were always very careful not to sing it in front of him.

 

 

_Speaking of those two – the very reasons my hair is greying faster than it has any right to at my age – they would make you proud and exasperated at once. Fíli is as fine an heir as I could ever wish for, that is, when he’s not wallowing in the heartache he developed for certain young Dwarrowdam who arrived from Ered Luin two springs ago. I have it from a good source that his love is not as unrequited as the Dam likes to make it seem, and I believe that the waiting serves the boy right. Fast courtship would be unbecoming of the future King, and besides, the longer his mother’s meddlesome nature is concentrated on her son’s love life, the longer I stay safe from her well-meant but ill-suited efforts to secure a match for me._

_I cannot say that I approve of Kíli’s choices, though. The less said on the matter the better. Kíli was born after the Dragon laid waste to our Kingdom, during those laborious days in Ered Luin, and fine Dwarrow though he is, I cannot fail to notice that he’s not as anchored to stone and ore as many of the Mountain born. I would not like to see his sun-loving soul wither inside the stone halls of Erebor and thus I have appointed him to the post of my official Emissary in dealings with the Woodland Realm. The state of affairs between our Kingdoms has been actually improving since then, and I am not sure if I like all the implications of it._

 

No, you wouldn’t like the implications at all, Bilbo thought to himself fondly. It’s indeed saying something when even the boisterous and sometimes not exactly bright youngling is a better diplomat than his royal Uncle.

 

_One of the many occasions on which I miss you acutely are our regular meetings concerning our defence strategy in the region. I have long ago forfeited my presence in trade negotiations – my advisors assure me that it was the wise thing to do – and now I have to gaze upon His Sourness King Thranduil himself only when matters truly demand discussion between kings. Those unpleasant sittings are not nearly as bearable as they were during your last Winter here, when I could at least enjoy the daggers our esteemed three-hugging ally was glaring in your direction. I regret that I shall never know how you managed to conjure the dungeon keys out of thin air but the most important thing is that Thranduil will never know that either, and I could see how it was eating away at him._

_You have become quite the Hero of Erebor, my long-missed friend, and while I would be the first to vouch for the truth of those tales that circulate about you – having been honoured by first-hand experience of your bravery, quick wit, and willingness of heart – I also know that you would be the first to scoff at them, demanding only to be given peace (and second breakfast, perhaps?), and it is this attitude of yours, this shortness of pride and love of easy comforts and simple explanations, that I miss the most about you. You have never allowed your eyes to be blinded by grandeur, nor your soul to be crippled under too heavy burdens of self-imposed responsibility, you always saw things for their true value and in that sense, you have been greater of character than anyone born to greatness._

You should have seen me just now, Bilbo opposed with no small amount of bitterness. Worked my nerves up into a fit for half of the day because I was scared of even opening your letter.

 

 

_I would recommend you treasure my next admission because I shall never repeat it, but I even miss your constant fussing over my health. What I wouldn’t have stood from others I have gladly born from you because I knew there was no shame in letting myself be looked after by you who saw no shame in looking after me. Where my temper would have been short with servants, who often presume that an ailment of the body means a decrepit mind as well, I was meek under your unimpressed gaze, my true shield-brother, and where others would shy from the sour moods the liabilities of my flesh inflicted upon me, with you I felt no outrage for I could be certain that you truly saw no weaknesses past those that time would eventually have healed. Perhaps it was because you have seen me when my body was at its strongest and halest while my mind was plagued by a dreadful sickness, and you came to recognise the more dangerous of the two: in your care, I felt assured that you wouldn’t have invested your efforts in my physical health had my spirit been undeserving of them._

 

Bilbo frowned as his eyes ran over the next lines.

 

_The truth is, my friend, that I am weary. It would be easy to assume that I grew weary of rule, and to an outsider’s eye, that assumption wouldn’t seem to have landed far off the mark. But it’s not the burden of rule itself that weighs on me of late so that my very bones ache when I lie on my bed in the dark hours of the morning and stare away the hours in my vain chase for sleep; it is more of a discontent, a certain sense of lacking. My entire life has been a preparation for this role, and Erebor thrives under my rule, but I cannot gain any sense of reward from it. It is as if I missed something during all those years I lived and breathed only for my dream of reclaiming our homeland, and as time passes, I am beginning to understand that in securing a life for my people I forgot to secure one for myself. It seems to me that the King Under The Mountain is but a shell, a shadow and a thought that I loved, and little did I know that in finally fulfilling the sole purpose I laid out for myself I would lose the only purpose I ever had. I spent my entire life wandering, striving, building – and now, my journey has ended, I succeeded in my endeavours, and a home for my people is built. Erebor has been reclaimed – and I am beginning to feel that I must add – but not for me. Perhaps my spirit is deserving of my birthright after all, for I have little care for gold and one smile on the face of my heirs is worth to me more than the glow of the Arkenstone itself, but deep in my heart I know how little I actually am deserving of the crown. It wasn’t my eyes that spotted the keyhole, it wasn’t my arrow that slew the Dragon, and it wasn’t my near-death that turned the tide of the Battle._

_I miss you, my dearest companion, more than mere words can convey. Already the tenth anniversary of the Battle is approaching. Ten years mean very little in the life of Dwarrows but I know that your folk counts time differently. Is that why you never write back? Have you found what I did not, O Child of the kindly West, have you wrought a good, peaceful life amidst your family? I hope so. You were wise to wish for small things, your little home, your garden, your armchair, food and cheer. You had your eyes on the life past our journey’s end, something I failed to consider. I wish you every happiness, Master Burglar._

 

Bilbo very carefully wiped the corners of his eyes, so that not a single tear would fall onto the precious pages and smudge the ink of the stark, somewhat angular lettering. His finger ran over the last lines and he drew in a shuddering breath.

Thorin had written him a letter every year, without exception.

Bilbo got up, feeling a little as if his feet didn’t belong to him, and made his slow way to his study. He approached the big writing desk and hesitated, his hand hovering over the bottom-most drawer, and then opened it warily as if it contained a wild ferret that would jump up and bite off his fingers.

But there was no dangerous thing inside of that drawer. Merely a handful of letters. All penned in Bilbo’s careful rounded script, their wording the perfect example of Hobbitish finest epistolary skills, and each one of them unfinished and unsent.

Blinking back more tears, Bilbo spread out his best paper onto the desk, sharpened his quill and opened a fresh bottle of ink. Then he began to write.

 

_Dear Thorin, my King,_

_Thank you for the news of Erebor. Not a day passes I wouldn’t think of the Mountain and all the folk within and I am glad to hear that there is to be a happy ending to many a tale._

_You have asked me why I never wrote back in response to your letters. As much as it pains me to admit it, the truth is that I was afraid. Afraid that I wouldn’t be able to contain my words, afraid that I would end up writing more than our friendship would bear – and on the same hand, writing less than the truth seemed dishonest in my own eyes. How could I have restricted myself to recount those frivolous affairs of my fellow Shirelings, to ponder on the yield of the crop, to waste ink on polite pleasantries – when those words could never do justice to the matters that itched to be freed from the confines of my heart and poured onto the paper?_

_I am ashamed that you ever called me brave, for cowardice is what stayed my hand. I was afraid to lose some nebulous, vague imagination of mine, a dream of things that could be, and for that fear I came to lose the thing that was, the one that mattered. Perhaps it is time to be brave, for that foolish dream shall never come to pass, and little good it did me holding my tongue in a hopeless attempt to preserve it._

_The truth at last, my friend, because you deserve nothing less, is that I haven’t found my happiness, and I never shall. After the Battle, after we parted, I thought everything would be well once I returned to my home. My journey indeed took me home, only for me to realise that a part of me remained forever in Erebor._

_It is dangerous to go on an adventure. Even though you make it home, you are never the same. My adventure has changed me, Thorin, and I can’t find peace in my old home any more. It feels so empty. The days stretch one after another, tasteless and thin like too little butter spread over too much bread. On long, silent nights, I keep wishing to hear a knock to the door and to find my pantry raided by a bunch of dreadfully ill-mannered Dwarves once again._

_My fellow Hobbits took to calling me Mad Baggins. Being unsociable is a considerable sin here in Hobbiton, you see. The truth is that I can barely stand most of my relatives any more. Honestly, I would rather have a troll sneezing on me than have to sit through afternoon tea with the Sackville-Bagginses._

_I tried to re-shape myself to fit back into my old place, I did. I tried to ignore and forget the part of my heart that you have occupied, and I made myself endure the company of others. I, the confirmed bachelor of so many years, allowed myself to be courted, only to eventually discover that my suitors were more interested in those fabulous tunnels filled with gold I am rumoured to keep under my smial. I wonder now if perhaps you experienced the same, and how cruel it must have been – to have to question the intentions of everyone who ever tried to win your attention, if they were truly after your heart, or merely after your birthright?_

_I miss you, Thorin, more than words can express. During our journey, I missed many things: my garden, my books; my armchair. My home. Too late I have come to realise that home is not only a place. It can be a person, and I–_

 

Sharp rapping on the door interrupted the flow of Bilbo’s thoughts and he lifted his head, an annoyed scowl settling on his face.

“No thank you!” He called out. “I don’t want any visitors, peddlers, or distant relatives!”

“And what about very old friends?” called an oddly familiar voice from outside and Bilbo’s heart skipped a beat.

“Gandalf?!”

A little while later Bilbo had already fretted about his newly-arrived guest with a speed and readiness that would make his cousin Lobelia green with envy. He certainly never tripped over his own feet in a hurry to bring food and tea to _her_!

“I’ve got a few bottles of the Old Vineyard left. Laid down by my father. What say we open one, eh?” Bilbo chattered as he dove into his pantry on his hunt for refreshments. There was that cold chicken, and look – some cheese – oh, no, that won’t do. Raspberry jam and scones from yesterday, and apple tart and bit of cheesecake–

“Just tea, please,” echoed Gandalf’s voice from somewhere around the smial and Bilbo startled a little when it didn’t come from the expected direction of the kitchen.

Nevertheless, when he entered the kitchen a few moments later, a tray laden with food in his hands, Gandalf was already seated as comfortably as he could at the table, eyes twinkling as ever, and if he noticed that Bilbo’s hands shook with something more than mere eagerness and that his cheeks were redder than surprised excitement, he chose not to comment upon it.

Gandalf’s visit was short, rather disappointingly so, in Bilbo’s opinion. Well, Wizards come and go as they please, always have done and always will.

“Have you finished your book yet?” Gandalf asked at one point and at first, Bilbo only shrugged in lieu of an answer. Then he thought a bit. 

“I’ve got the ending,” he said at last. “‘And he lived happily ever after, to the end of his days.’” His own smile was only half-hearted, barely more than a self-deprecating smirk, but Gandalf’s eyes crinkled in genuine affection and his tone was gentle, when he said:

“And I’m sure you will, my dear friend.”

They parted after nightfall, and it was only after Gandalf disappeared behind the road’s turn when Bilbo remembered his unfinished letter.

Only it happened that however hard he looked, he couldn’t find it anywhere.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The old Tookish lullaby in this chapter is actually my translation of a maiden song that appears in the Czech TV fairytale musical "Zlatovláska" (Goldilocks) from 1973. I kept the syllable count fitting to the tune, so you can sing it along with [ here ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JIOqM1HelPE).


	3. Meanwhile in Erebor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A conspiracy against the Throne.

Even the most seasoned travellers would have to contend with at least several months for the journey from the Shire to the Lonely Mountain, even if the solitary peak was the only goal of their wandering. But wizard’s ways are never straight, meandering instead all over Middle Earth to wherever their wizarding business calls them, and thus it was no wonder that when at last the towers of Dale rose above the horizon in front of Gandalf’s weary eyes, the tenth anniversary of the Battle of Five Armies was long past and people were already making preparations for the eleventh.

 

Gandalf patted the neck of his horse, a tall steed of marvellous endurance; a gift from his loyal friend Thengel of Rohan, and murmured a few words in Sindarin into his mane. The horse twitched his ears in understanding and trotted onwards, a spring to his step that wasn’t there a moment ago.

 

On the nearby hillside, a tall figure on horseback heeled their white steed on and made for the road to join him. He’s been expected.

 

“ _Le suilon, Mithrandir_ ,” the Elven archer bowed her head when she reined in her horse to fall into step alongside Gandalf’s. Her hair, the colour of polished copper, fell freely down her back save for a symmetrical pair of braids framing her face; silvery beads behind her pointed ears swinging with the motion of the ride. “Word has reached us of your arrival. Allow me to keep you company on the rest of your journey and see to your welcome. I’m Tauriel.”

 

“I remember you,” Gandalf replied, hiding his smile in his beard. “ _Mae g’ovannen,_ my friend of the Woodland Realm.”

 

“I hail from Dale now,” she remarked without further elaboration. Gandalf, she knew, was familiar with half of her story, and smart enough to easily put together the rest. “I’m in aid of King Bard, the Dragonslayer.”

 

“Oh? And how is Bard enjoying his kingship?” Gandalf chuckled. The corners of Tauriel’s mouth twitched.

 

“About as well as you’re suspecting he is, since you’re asking,” she replied. “Bard has been a bargeman several times longer than he’s a king – sometimes he’s got trouble handling his noble allies.”

 

“And you’re there to remind him not to be over-reverent in the face of royalty?” Gandalf’s eyes twinkled. The way Tauriel held onto her serene face was remarkable. Only a silver undertone in her voice betrayed her mirth when she replied, as nonchalantly as if sitting in court:

 

“It’s more me telling him he should try being a _tiny_ bit reverent at all if he wants to get something through their thick kingly skulls.”

 

Gandalf barked out a laugh. He could just envision those meetings. Maybe he could join them on one or two; he missed a jolly good bit of fun lately...

 

“Bard is an honest man who believes in honest words,” Tauriel added apologetically.

 

“Whereas Thranduil likes his bread honeyed on both sides, I can imagine,” Gandalf chuckled.

 

The rest of their journey passed quickly and in easy conversation. The sun was casting the last of her weary autumn warmth on their backs when they finally reached the front gates of Erebor.

 

Tauriel left him with vague words about seeing to his accommodation soon after they entered the great city, disappearing into the maze of winding corridors and stairways with familiarity that left Gandalf looking after her with a raised eyebrow. Word of the guards on the gates preceded him through the Mountain and soon he found himself flanked by two venerable Dwarfs, by no doubts members of the Council, whose names he promptly discarded as soon as they rose from their cursory bows, accompanying him to the King’s private study.

 

“Wizard,” the King Under the Mountain said when the chamber door closed, leaving them alone. It wasn’t the heartiest of greetings; but it lacked the angry disdain Thorin was so full of during their journey.  The King rose from behind his desk, stacked with paperwork, and went around it to clasp Gandalf’s hand in both of his own.

 

Ten years had passed since Gandalf last saw Thorin, and now the wizard carefully kept his face in check as not to betray his surprise at the sight. Where the Dwarf’s hair was once a proud dark waterfall with a few white streaks, there only to lend him distinction, now the radiant black seemed dimmed, the waves limp, and flecked with grey so much that he looked as if he ran through cobwebs. Age alone couldn’t account for such a change; the line of Durin was blessed with long lifespan. Thrór ruled well into his fourth century and still his beard was only steel-blue, not white.

 

“Not idly do the great Istari pay visits to mortal kingdoms,” Thorin remarked, and Gandalf couldn’t shake off a feeling that the sarcasm in that statement was missing its aim by a mile. His brows furrowed closer together when Thorin turned to face the window for his next question. Yes, and wasn’t it odd that the King would require a window in his study – a true Mountain-born Dwarf – that for this purpose he would appropriate a room so far from the royal quarters placed deep in the Mountain and protected by fathoms of rock? Though Gandalf was less surprised when he noticed that the window faced West.

 

“What news of the Shire?” 

 

 _A harbinger of ill news, they call me in many realms_ , Gandalf remembered. Despite the light casualness of the question, Thorin seemed to be worried, and Gandalf believed he knew why.

 

“I haven’t been to the Shire for many months,” the wizard replied cautiously. “But that land was made to endure, so I would suppose nothing has really changed since I last was there.”

 

“Good,” came the murmured reply, and Gandalf sensed relief there, mixed with disappointment.

 

When Thorin turned back to him, there was weariness to the line of his shoulders that spoke of more than just hours spent on the duties of his office. His eyes still shone with determination and that special force of presence, characteristic of a king, but their blue light was veiled, and dark circles framed them, the result of more than just a few sleepless nights.

 

“Well then–” Thorin began with a businesslike nod of his head, every inch the impassive King again, and Gandalf was having none of it.

 

“Forgive me, O King, but my journey was long, and the ages my bones has seen hadn’t made me any less appreciative of food and rest. May we speak after dinner?”

 

From anyone else, Thorin wouldn’t have tolerated such bluntness; and truth to be told, even Gandalf was a little surprised when the King only nodded again, uncharacteristic acceptance in his tone: “We may.”

 

*

Balin was awaiting him in his designated chambers, already stuffing his pipe, when Gandalf arrived.

 

“Well met, Gandalf!” The King’s advisor greeted him with unpretended enthusiasm.  “I was worried you wouldn’t come.”

 

“A wizard is never late, if that’s what you’re suggesting,” Gandalf grumbled. “Were you worried so much?”

 

Balin puffed at his pipe. “I worry about our King, my friend,” he said at last.

 

Gandalf hummed. “So you’ve noticed it.”

 

“It’s perhaps more obvious to you who haven’t seen him in some time, but yes, I’ve noticed it. Thorin is fading.”

 

Gandalf fished out his own pipe and accepted Balin’s pouch of pipe weed.

 

“It’s progressing slower,” Balin continued, “because he never really acknowledged the bond, but still he’s fading.”

 

Gandalf huffed out a puff of smoke. It took a shape of an angry raven, flapped its wings irritably, and disappeared.

 

“What’s keeping him from going after Bilbo?”

 

“Equal parts sense of duty towards his kingdom, self-recrimination, and obliviousness.”

 

“Nothing new under the sun, when it comes to Thorin,” Gandalf scoffed.

 

Balin reached into an inner pocket of his robes and drew out a folded piece of parchment, singed at the corners. He handed it to Gandalf, who read it silently, little puffs of smoke from his mouth taking no shape at all.

 

“I found this a year after Bilbo left. I think that was when Thorin finally understood that Bilbo wasn’t coming back. He knows that Bilbo is alive and well, he writes him every year – but you know, Gandalf, that sometimes the head can’t convince the heart.This–” Balin indicated the fragment of a poem, “–is a Lament. For all intents and purposes, Thorin is mourning our burglar.” Balin looked sad. “I fear he doesn’t have the courage to save himself.”

 

“Dwarves!” Gandalf swore. “I’ve been sent to this world to inspire hope in the hearts of men, not to play matchmaker!” He huffed and puffed some more, then he sighed. “ _Fine_. I believe that, once again, I shall be giving a little push out of the door.”

 

Balin beamed, but before he managed to say anything, a sudden knocking on the door interrupted them.

 

“Sir!” A distressed voice came from the corridor. Balin’s bid to enter barely left his lips when a young messenger nearly fell through the door in his haste. “Sir, Her Highness is in labour!”

 

“What?” Balin looked from him to Gandalf with alarm that the latter began to understand when the messenger added: “Lín, the midwife, is asking for any healers that can help. It’s not going well.”

 

*

 

Tauriel joined them on their way to the quarters of Prince Fíli and his wife. Gandalf barely had the time to shed his travel cloak when Fíli barged into the room, half of his ceremonial garb still on from when he sat in Court as the crowned Prince and the Heir apparent, eyes wide with worry.

 

“What’s wrong with Dagní? She wasn’t due for at least another four weeks!”

 

“Well, it’s not like I could sew her shut and ask the baby to change its mind, now!” a Dwarrowdam with a formidable mane of white hair and white beard braided neatly away from her face barked out, wiping her hands as she came out from the adjoining room.

 

“She’s bleeding too much, and the heart of the baby is slowing. I’m afraid there’s no time to lose.” Her eyes alighted on Tauriel and Gandalf and she grunted in satisfaction.

 

“You! Elf! They say every elf is a bit of a healer. I need lots of hot water and someone nimble with a blade.”

 

Fíli’s face turned white as a sheet at the mention of a blade. The midwife forced him to sit down with the sheer power of her glare. “I don’t need husbands fainting on me when I’m busy,” she muttered.

 

“Tharkûn,” the midwife bowed her head slightly with a tad more reverence than she spared to the royal family. Gandalf nodded and patted young Fíli on the shoulder as he went past him, following the midwife back to the private chamber.

 

“Everything will be all right, my boy.”

 

*

 

 _Bilbo would have liked this look_ , Gandalf thought to himself as he surveyed the form of His Royal Highness, Prince of Erebor, sprawled unconscious on the floor. It turned out that Fíli did faint in the end – when they told him, half an hour after their hasty arrival, that he’s become a father of twins, a boy and a girl.

 

The poor boy looked close to fainting again when they told him later that without Tauriel’s help, his wife would have bled out, and that it was Gandalf’s spell that brought his newborn daughter back from the brink of death.

 

Tauriel held one faintly mewling bundle of cloths in her arms, the wisp of flaxen hair just visible above the crook of her arm. The boy seemed to have the Firebeard colouring, taking after his father. Gandalf was humming under his breath a little tune for the wee baby girl almost lost in the folds of his robe, the peach fuzz on her cheeks black and the slivers of her newborn eyes the deepest blue, already a mirror image of their grandmother. Dagní was just about coming to herself after the potion Lín gave her to dull the pain when they had to cut her open.

 

“Twins are terribly rare for the Dwarrows,” Lín explained, folding fresh cloths and throwing the bloodstained ones into a large basket. “That’s why the birth happened prematurely. Also the strain was too much, and her womb ruptured.”

 

“So she’ll be never again able to...” Fíli asked hesitantly, holding his wife’s hand in a careful grip. Dagní opened her eyes in an exhausted glare.

 

“If you ever mention pregnancy to me again, I swear I’ll cut off your pride, husband!”

 

Old Lín chuckled into her beard. _That_ was a threat she had heard every so often in her career, and it never stopped the wives from forgetting about the pain and eventually bearing a younger sibling to their firstborn. Then she turned to Gandalf, sharp eyes glinting with curiosity.

 

“What was that ring on your finger, Tharkûn? The one with the red stone that seemed to flare up with inner fire when you worked your magic?”

 

“Oh, that.” Gandalf tugged the sleeves of his robe a little further down, carefully adjusting his grip on the baby. “Just a good charm. Elven make.” He winked.

 

Lín laughed. “You shan’t hear a word against Elves in these halls from this day onwards, I bet!” Tauriel blushed slightly at that and murmured under her breath: “If only.”

 

“Tauriel’s happiness is not in my hands, but you - you saved my child, Gandalf. My life is in your debt,” Fíli said. “Name anything and it’s yours.”

 

Gandalf’s pleased face turned serious. “There is a thing I want you to do, my boy.”

 

“Anything, Gandalf. Consider it done.”

 

Gandalf leaned on his staff and levelled Fíli with a stern gaze. “I think it’s high time you repaid everything your Uncle’s ever done for you.”

 

*

 

“Twins? There’s two of them?”

 

Thorin swayed a little on his feet and didn’t protest the hand Dís laid on his arm for support. Kíli all but bounced around the room, ecstatic about becoming an uncle – and twofold, to boot! His mother’s smile could outshine the sun, and Thorin felt so happy forDís – for Fíli – and for Dagní... and maybe, even for himself? Was this how happiness tasted? This profound sense of relief, as if his heavy crown of steel suddenly didn’t weigh more than a feather? The line of Durin was secure.

 

“We always wanted to name the boy Frérin,” supplied Fíli. “I guess the girl came as a bit of a surprise. Any suggestions?”

 

“What about Narya?” Lín, the midwife, prompted in an innocent voice. “It’s a beautiful name, even if a bit Elvish.”

 

“It is beautiful,” Fíli agreed. “What does it mean?”

 

“It means, my Prince,” Gandalf sighed, “that you should never underestimate midwives.”

 

“And Elves,” added Thorin, a serenity in his voice that implied he wasn’t joking. He went over to Tauriel, who bowed deeply.

 

“You keep saving my family, _nathith_. Thank you.”

 

“Did you just...?” Kíli gasped, freezing mid-bounce. Tauriel looked at him with barely concealed hope in her eyes.

 

Gandalf nodded to himself. Dwarves were made of stone, and stone does not bend; yet, Tauriel was a true daughter of the Forest, as graceful as a tree, yielding to the slightest breeze but resilient under the onslaught of storm, and tree roots have been known to take roots even in the sturdiest of rocks. If Thorin was willing to forgo the ancient rules of Dwarvendom for the sake of loyalty and love, maybe hope wasn’t lost for little Bilbo of the Shire.

 

“It’s my job calling her a daughter, Thorin,” Dís admonished her brother, smiling through her tears. “Oh, what a day. To think I might still live to see both of my boys married!”

 

“Thank you, my Lord,” breathed Tauriel. Thorin bid her to stand and gave her a considering gaze.

 

“You may marry my sister-son under one condition. I would have you swear your allegiance to me on the next Meeting of Kings.”

 

“King Thranduil banished me more than ten years ago, Sire–” Tauriel began in confusion but the King only smirked.

 

“I know, but still it will anger him to see you taking an oath to me.”

 

Kíli couldn’t wait. He grabbed Tauriel by the hand and dragged her away, probably to celebrate properly, and Lín followed after them, muttering under her beard something about Princelings not yet grown into their beards. Balin ordered wine to be brought in and Gandalf emptied his goblet with gratitude. It had been a long day indeed.

 

Thorin sat by the window, staring into his goblet, unheeding of the occasional glances his family threw his way, until Gandalf came to sit next to him.

 

“Well, King,” the wizard cleared his throat. “Now, when the succession to the throne is secured and Erebor stands at her strongest, I think you could allow yourself a little vacation.”

 

Thorin didn’t deny feeling tired. Some years ago he would have fought Gandalf, denying the weariness of his spirit, but today he didn’t have the willpower to hide.

 

Gandalf’s tone gentled. “Why don’t you go visit Bilbo in the Shire?”

 

Thorin didn’t lift his eyes from his wine. “Why would he want to see me? He never responds to letters.”

 

“Bilbo misses _you_ ,” Gandalf replied exasperatedly, “not your _letters_.”

 

Thorin shook his head. “I cannot. I can’t leave for so long–”

 

“Oh but you can,” Dís’ bright voice interrupted him, “and you better do.”

 

Thorin looked up to find all his family gathered around them. His eyes narrowed. “Fíli is still too young–”

 

“Fíli has been standing at your side for the past ten years, brother. He knows everything there is to know about how to rule this Mountain,” Dís nearly ran out of breath, “and I know about everything he doesn’t need to know,” she added in lower voice, somewhat ominously. Thorin shot a suspicious glance at Balin who stood there, twirling the tips of his beard, a look of beatific innocence on his face.

 

“Just go, Uncle,” Fíli said. “I am a long time ready and you know it. I won’t let any harm come unto this Kingdom, and what’s more, I won’t have you being so unhappy all the time. You did well by your people; you deserve your share of happiness.”

 

Thorin looked at the united front of his family and then a corner of his mouth lifted in a faint smile.

 

“So this is a conspiracy.”

 

“That it is, O King,” Gandalf confirmed. “It will be good for you – and most amusing for me.” He muttered the last part into his goblet as he took a large swig.

 

“Very well then.” Thorin took a deep breath and wondered how quickly the wine was affecting him – there was warmth spreading through his body, warmer than anything he felt in a very long time. Did his heart really quicken its beat? It felt so slow lately; no pleasure or annoyance could stir the glacial throb of blood in his veins, as if his pulse slowed down to match the majestic beat of the biggest mechanical hammer down in the deepest forge of the Mountain. He had wandered through the shafts and corridors, sensing his way through the darkness, and no longer felt the coldness of stone under his ever so cold fingertips. The Mountain was slowly claiming him; turning him into stone from inside out – but now there was a crack; a breath of warmth, a spark of hope, like the first firefly shining under the cave roof after a long, cold winter.

 

“I shall leave after the wedding, and after Fíli is crowned Prince Regent.”


	4. Misunderstandings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo learns that he should always burn everything he writes when drunk and heartsick.

Adventures might make you late for dinner, groused Bilbo to himself as he slowly climbed the winding lane to the green door of his home, but babysitting for your relatives – even if you did like them, for a change – would definitely make you late for afternoon tea. Of all the extended Baggins family, Drogo and Primula were the ones Bilbo could actually maintain a conversation with, without suffering the urge to gnaw at his own toes in frustration, and their wee lad Frodo was perhaps the most spirited thing in this Farthing at least; but still Bilbo would prefer the comfort of his own armchair for his daily tea making ritual – now nearly half an hour late.  

He pushed open the gate and sighed inwardly at the sore sight of the flowerbeds in the front garden. They never recovered from when half of the Shire trod upon them during that blasted auction eleven years ago, no matter how attentively Bilbo tended to them, and now the handful of wilting tulips and puny hyacinths lined a pitiful lawn, struggling despite the beautiful Spring weather all around. Nothing green seemed to grow under Bilbo’s care any more. It was as if the land around Bilbo’s home felt the loss of its masters – first Bungo died, then Belladonna shortly after him, and then Bilbo went and left his heart far away in the East, and the soil knew it. The earth in the beds brought up pebbles and rocks after every rain and many seeds Bilbo planted remained buried forever, their pale sprouts never making it above ground. 

Even the acorn Bilbo carried through so many perils didn’t take. Bilbo planted it at the other side of the Hill, far enough so that the mighty roots wouldn’t disturb the ceilings of Bag End but close enough so that he would hear the rustle of wind in the branches, but it had never sprouted. Maybe it froze during the long Winter in Erebor, maybe it was already dead and dried when Bilbo picked it up in Béorn’s garden, who knows. They say that a Hobbit’s garden is a picture of his soul, and Bilbo didn’t want to dwell on what exactly his mockery of a garden was saying about him. 

He opened the round door, eyes habitually cast down, and that’s when he froze. There was mud on the threshold and on the otherwise shining hallway floor. 

Bilbo’s hand went automatically into his pocket, fingers closing around an empty space. He nearly swore aloud: today of all days, he would leave his little ring on the mantelpiece in his study! A sudden sound interrupted him: something like a wet cough, a prolonged, stifled, rasping sound, from somewhere inside of his house. What pudding head of a burglar would go about their business when sick, Bilbo wondered, and tiptoed on his silent Hobbit feet to retrieve Sting from the box he rarely ever opened nowadays. With the familiar weight of a drawn blade in hand he crept around the house to where he could hear the sounds of the intruder – rustle of fabric, shuffle of heavy boots, and an occasional cough. 

He glimpsed the figure through the half-opened door to his study – _between you and your ring_ , something in his mind whispered and a sudden rage bubbled up red in front of his eyes, nearly blinding him. The intruder stood with his back to the door, face lifted towards the framed old map from the Quest for Erebor hanging on the wall, his features hidden from Bilbo’s line of sight by a strangely familiar sweep of greying, unbraided hair. _A Dwarf_ , a little clear thought registered with Bilbo underneath the thrum of his own heart beating fast, blood in his ears deafening him, and he held his breath and took two swift steps into the room, Sting held high and pointed upwards– 

The Dwarf turned around, perhaps at the whisper of air against Sting’s sharp blade, and found himself held at the point of a little sword aimed right at the centre of his chest. 

Bilbo gasped, all breath leaving him. Above the gleaming edge of his sword, a pair of painfully familiar eyes bore into his, flickering through surprise, wariness, joy, amusement– 

“You said we shouldn’t bother knocking,” Thorin said, his voice gruff and much hoarser than Bilbo remembered it. 

“I also said tea’s at four! It’s half past!” Bilbo’s mouth said for him, even as his brain was still processing the sight in front of him and some Baggins part in him unhelpfully pointed out that, in fact, he was the one late for tea. 

Thorin’s mouth twitched. “I lost my way, twice.” 

Bilbo absolutely did not faint. He didn’t. There only was a bit of grey fog hanging in front of his eyes, nothing more, thank you very much, and when it lifted, he was sitting in his armchair and Thorin was putting away his letter opener of a sword. It was when the Dwarf returned with an armful of a quilt, obviously about to arrange it over Bilbo’s legs, that Bilbo finally woke from his stupor. 

He batted the hands with the quilt away and rubbed his eyes, half expecting Thorin to vanish back into thin air the moment he looked at him again. Yet he seemed real. Living, breathing Thorin Oakenshield stood in Bilbo’s study, staring at him with something in his eyes that Bilbo thought he’d seen there once before – on the Carrock, perhaps... Hundreds of words whirled through the Hobbit’s poor head but none actually made it past his uncooperative mouth, and silence stretched between them awkwardly, until at last Thorin’s shoulders sagged, the soft expression on his face turned sad and then disappeared entirely, and the impassive King was firmly in place once more. 

“I have a grand-nephew and a grand-niece,” he said, obviously the first thing that came to mind to breach the silence. 

Bilbo grasped at the offering gratefully. “So Fíli won the hand of that EredLuin Dam after all? That’s good news.” 

“So you _have_ been getting my letters,” Thorin said in a low voice, half to himself. He looked equally relieved and saddened by the confirmation. 

“Yes, yes, of course,” Bilbo stammered and then, with a jolt of alarm, he thought of that cursed letter he started to write over a year ago. Gandalf must have stolen it and delivered it to Thorin. _What can you do_ , Bilbo told himself, _there’s no way around that mess, you have to bite into that rotten apple now and hope it doesn’t bite you back_. 

“Look, Thorin,” he began hesitantly, “I’m sorry for whatever I wrote in my letter that made you think you have to–” 

“You’ve answered? You wrote me a letter?” There was such incredulous hope in Thorin’s voice that Bilbo’s heart broke a little. 

“Yessss... ish.” Bilbo added the second syllable under his breath, averting his eyes. 

“Why wouldn’t I?” he added a forcibly cheerful not-quite-a-lie, at which Thorin’s face lit up like the first star on the evening sky and Bilbo wished for the ground to open up and swallow him in his shame. 

“All that time I thought...” Thorin’s face darkened. “I’ll have the hide of that scoundrel who dared to fail in delivering it. What a felony, to misplace a royal correspondence!” 

“Well, it’s hardly royal when it’s written by a Shire grocer, is it,” Bilbo hastened to calm down the incoming fit of royal outrage. _Brilliant, Bilbo, you fool_. _Now you’ve gone and made some poor Dwarf merchant’s life a living hell._  

“Never a grocer, Bilbo,” Thorin said earnestly, and was there a little colour to his cheeks? Bilbo couldn’t help the warm feeling spreading through him from showing on his face. Oh, confound it, now he was surely blushing! 

Neither of them said anything for a while, until Thorin cleared his throat. It sounded forced. 

“I also have an Elven niece-in-law. Kíli wedded Tauriel on Durin’s Day last year.” 

Bilbo thought on it. Obviously; Fíli having heirs had liberated Kíli from that very obligation. He was free to marry his Elven sweetheart. Was that why Thorin was here? All of a sudden, Bilbo became angry. Has Thorin come to collect him now, when he was no longer pressed to maintain a bloodline? How long would have Bilbo had to wait otherwise? Was it Thorin’s intention from the very start, to put his feelings for Bilbo aside and simply wait for the opportunity to dodge the law? 

The Hobbit stood up briskly and rubbed his palms. “Well, then, since you’ve missed tea, dinner’s at eight. I should be checking my pantry. Got used to cook only for myself. Hate the thought of wasting food. Where are your companions? Guards?” 

Thorin took a step back, clearly confused by the unexpected burst of activity. “We joined a merchant caravan. The small personal guard I had for the journey has been sent further into Ered Luin, they have some errands of their own there.” 

“We?” Bilbo didn’t miss the pronoun. 

“Gandalf is staying at the Green Dragon tonight,” Thorin explained. “He said something about–” 

“Blasted wizard! How dare he!” exclaimed Bilbo, realising a bit too late that his fury might look like an over-reaction to being denied the opportunity to grant Gandalf a proper Hobbit hospitality. Not that Bilbo wanted to host him. He wanted to kill him. Slowly.

 “Never mind,” he waved off Thorin’s astonished look. Then he wrung his hands again and carefully looked everywhere but at his guest. “Well, um, how long do you plan on staying?” 

It was an extremely rude inquiry probably in every society, not only Hobbitish, and his Baggins grandmother would chase him with her walking stick across three Farthings for that. Thorin, on his part, looked stricken, even though most people wouldn’t have been able to tell if they didn’t know him as well as Bilbo did. For a second, the Dwarf’s eyes were misted over with something that looked suspiciously like sheen of tears. Feeling like a scoundrel himself, Bilbo nodded in the direction of his pantry and added weakly: “So I can replenish the supplies.” 

Thorin opened his mouth for the reply but only gasped for air instead, doubling over in a fit of wet, exhausting coughing. He staggered with the force of it and had to steady himself against the mantelpiece. 

Taken aback, Bilbo looked at him properly, probably for the first time that evening. Now he noticed the high flush in his cheeks and the sheen of his eyes for what they really were – he recalled the raspy cough he heard in his house earlier – and scolding himself ten times over, he ran to Thorin to put his palm unceremoniously on the King’s forehead. 

“You’re burning with fever! Confounded Dwarf! Why didn’t you say anything?!” 

“It’s nothing,” Thorin wheezed. His lips were pale, and the fingers he grasped Bilbo’s sleeve with were trembling. “We got caught in a snow storm once in the passes over the Misty Mountains–” 

Bilbo realised that Thorin must have crossed Misty Mountains during Winter. Oh goodness, how long has he been sick? He manhandled Thorin into his guest bedroom, pulling his heavy coat and boots off him and piling warm blankets on his shaking frame, and fussed all over the kitchen in the preparation of tea. Why, he cursed himself, couldn’t he grow at least a decent sweet marjoram in a pot? Strong marjoram tea with linden blossom would drive the cough straight out of the Dwarf’s body, but the only thing Bilbo managed to put together was a cup of willow bark tea with chamomile for the fever.  

Half an hour of fussing later, Thorin was falling into feverish sleep, and Bilbo sneaked out to knock at his neighbour’s door. Bell Gamgee answered it immediately. 

“Bell, dear, can you come with me? I need you to–” 

“Is this about that Dwarf in your home, Master Bilbo?” Bell’s round face lit up with a smile and she followed him into Bag End, skirts flapping around her ankles in her haste. 

“I saw him going in, and I thought, finally, because you see, I recognised Master Oakenshield from the description in your book, and he really is so very handsome – oh yes, but right now he doesn’t look very well, indeed!” Bell stopped short of breath and looked at the patient, sweating and tossing his head on the pillow in his uneasy sleep. 

“Don’t worry, Master Bilbo, I’ll look after him for a while. I’m so happy for you! You see, everything comes to those who wait!” 

Bilbo ran away before she could drill a hole in his skull with her chatter. He had a Wizard to catch, after all.

 

**

 

“You!” Bilbo sputtered in lieu of a greeting as soon as he spotted Gandalf sitting on a bench in front of the Green Dragon inn, puffing away at his pipe as if enjoying the beautiful evening was his only business in the entire Middle Earth. 

“You _burgled_ me–” 

“Bilbo Baggins!” Gandalf boomed, eyebrows drawing together. Though he didn’t even stand up, somehow he suddenly seemed towering and looming over Bilbo, and despite the warm evening air Bilbo felt a shiver of cold running through his spine. “I would never _rob_ you!” 

Then, just as quickly as before, everything was back to normal. Old man in a battered grey cloak sat on a bench and birds chirped in the bushes along the road. Bilbo blinked. Gandalf smiled gently: “I was trying to help you.” 

“By stealing a letter that I didn’t even finish? That was my business and mine alone–” Bilbo pressed on but Gandalf only shook his head. 

“And what would you have done with it, Bilbo? Either you’d have run out of courage like those nine times before and you wouldn’t have sent anything, or you’d have sent it – and what exactly would you have achieved with it? At the time your letter would have arrived, Thorin was nowhere near ready to leave his Kingdom, and your heartfelt and honest words would have only succeeded in making him more miserable than he already was. I did you some good, Bilbo, by delaying that letter, and you’ll do some good to yourself if you keep your mouth shut about it!” 

Bilbo, in a rare display of obedience, snapped his mouth shut. 

For about two seconds. 

“One question. Why haven’t you shown it to him, then?” 

Gandalf coughed. It sounded like suppressing a laugh. “So you could tell him yourself, Bilbo.” 

The Hobbit drew in a deep breath and winced. “You’re probably right.” He looked at his hands. “As usual.” 

Gandalf hummed. 

“But–” Bilbo whined, “–now I have a bedroom full of a sick Dwarf! What’s this devilry, Gandalf? Thorin said something about a snow storm, but we’ve been through a freezing river in barrels and he never even sneezed – unlike me, for instance – and now he gets sick from a bit of snow?” 

“It’s more than a bit of snow in the passes over Misty Mountains during winter,” Gandalf admonished him. “You’re lucky you never had to travel through it. But you’re right, in a way. Even the harshest weather wouldn’t harm Thorin – if he was hale. He isn’t. His body is weakened, more than he acknowledges it to himself.” 

“What happened to him?” 

Gandalf regarded him for a while with a familiar expression that Bilbo came to associate with a cryptic statement soon to be uttered. 

“Long story short – you left him.” 

Oh. Well. That wasn’t cryptic in the least. Rather blunt, actually. Bilbo looked at the ground. “I’ve read of this. I thought it only happened to Elves.” 

“Tell me, my friend,” Gandalf asked conversationally, “How does your garden grow?” 

Bilbo gaped. _Him_? He was fading? It all made sense, actually... no wonder the acorn didn’t take. The Hobbit that came back from his adventure was not the same that set out on it. And as so very often, the shock in Bilbo’s heart melted down into anger. 

“And what was I supposed to do? Should I have born it? Do you have any idea how it hurts, this – this unrequited – _thing_ –” 

Gandalf closed his eyes for a fraction of a second too long. 

“Gandalf?” came the hesitant question. “Was there... someone?” 

The wizard smiled, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Still is.” He puffed out a wisp of smoke that turned into golden leaves, slowly falling to the ground. “She chose the unchanging beauty of immortal silver over greying ashes just barely flickering with hope, and she was right to do so.” 

Bilbo sat down next to Gandalf. Silence stretched companionably between them. At last, he gave a loud sigh. 

“What happens now? What am I going to do?” He didn’t need to elaborate. They had a life-long friendship with Gandalf; a lot passed between them that didn’t need to be said aloud. 

“You’ve waited for so long, Bilbo. Just a bit longer won’t hurt you.” 

“I don’t know why I trust you,” muttered Bilbo. 

Gandalf laughed. “But you do! That’s good. Good indeed.” He put down his pipe and bowed his head to look Bilbo straight in the eye. “I think you’re quite ready for another adventure.” 

“This time there’s more at stake than my reputation,” Bilbo warned him. 

“I know, my dear fellow,” Gandalf replied earnestly. “Just trust your heart. I trust it well enough.”

 

*

 

Gandalf had assured Bilbo that the cough that ailed Thorin wasn’t anything worse than a common cold, caught several weeks prior on one of the last days of their trek through the Misty Mountains. It was a persistent thing, though hardly life-threatening, and the fever only spiked the day they finally arrived to Hobbiton. “A couple of days sweating in bed will finally get it out of his system,” Gandalf advised and right he was, as usual. The fever broke on the third day, the cough subsided after another two days, and in a week’s time Thorin simply couldn’t be contained inside of Bag End, however Bilbo tried. 

To Bilbo, it seemed that their second first meeting was fated to go down much the same way as the first one did – off the wrong foot. Friends in life and death, reunited after long separation, weren’t supposed to walk around each other on eggshells, were they? But slowly, gradually, their conversations became less strained, and their demeanour around each other opened and relaxed. During long evenings in front of the fireplace – Thorin always seemed to seek warmth, despite the unusually warm Spring – the King would recount stories about members of the Company, describe the rebuilding of both the Dwarven city and the city of Men, or he would reminisce on his former life in the Blue Mountains, and Bilbo sat there, mostly listening, and letting that beautiful voice wash over him like a spring rain, warm, gentle and long prayed for.  

It was nice, the private part of it, Bilbo mused. Thorin in the Shire with him, quiet and hopeful and slowly mending all the things that time and neglect had wronged between them. But the Shire didn’t end on the doorstep of Bag End. In fact, it began there. And it was full of very, very nosey Hobbits. 

“It took him long enough, if you ask me,” remarked Saradoc, Bilbo’s Brandybuck cousin, over his second pint of ale. “I understand that the kingly business takes some time to wrap up but still, eleven years is an awful lot of time.” 

“Excuse me?” Bilbo looked up. He spent the better part of the evening at the Green Dragon, giving Thorin time to see to some of his correspondence (apparently, matters of stately importance could reach him even on his vacation), mostly staring into his barely touched ale and turning some very unpleasant thoughts over and over inside his own head. It was only the mention of eleven years that caught his attention. 

“We’ve been getting worried for you, Bilbo, that’s all,” Saradoc shrugged. “Having to wait for your husband for so long! Why, I only had to wait for my Esmeralda for three months, before she came of age, and I thought it would– ” 

“My _husband_?” Bilbo was glad he didn’t have the mind to drink. He’d be sputtering perfectly good ale right now and goodness, wouldn’t that be a waste? 

“You thought we didn’t know?” It was Saradoc’s turn to look surprised. “We all read your book, Bilbo. Yeah, you did skip out the part about the wedding, but–” 

“My book ends with the coronation and my return here!” Bilbo protested against what was perhaps the most trivial part of Saradoc’s string of nonsense, but his flabbergasted head didn’t seem strong enough to address the main problem right then. 

“Of course it does!” Saradoc clapped him on the shoulder with all the force of two pints of ale. Bilbo winced. “Very proper ending to a very proper tale, nobody’s raising a word against it. But, my dear cousin,” and the Brandybuck tapped the side of his nose, “we all can read between the lines. You were madly in love with him, and he was madly in love with you, and it’s only right and proper that you should come back here to take care of your childhood home while he takes care to wrap up the kingly things, or whatever, but as I said, it took him long enough!” 

Bilbo’s head reeled. This was worse than a bunch of Dwarves barging into his home and mistaking him for a burglar. This was all his relatives, and quite possibly the entire Shire, believing that Bilbo had married the King Under the Mountain and has been simply waiting for him to– what? End his ‘kingly business’ and join him in his retirement? 

“Saradoc,” Bilbo drew a deep breath, “I think there’s been a misunderstanding. There’s been no wedding.” 

“Oh!” Saradoc startled, leaning into Bilbo and squinting at him from so close that he went a bit cross-eyed. Then he regained his balance and repeated: “ _Oh!_ Well, Dwarfs are a strange folk. Suppose there’s some perks to it – simply get together without all that relatives hogwash and weeks of preparations and gossip milling about it for three generations afterwards. Sounds sensible, actually, but never tell Esme I said that,” and Saradoc winked and chuckled, oblivious to Bilbo’s growing despair. He signalled the bartender for another pint and boomed: 

“Whoa, Bilbo, that means you never had a proper wedding! That just won’t do! Dwarfs might be all right with a simple agreement but you’re a Hobbit! We should see to–” 

“Would you just listen, Saradoc!” Bilbo exclaimed. “Thorin is–” 

“Yeah, still recovering, I know, wouldn’t dream of pushing him so soon. But you should hurry, Bilbo. Spring weddings are the nicest. The best flowers for the crowns you could ask for.” 

There was no point in arguing with a drunken Brandybuck, Bilbo realised. The bench under his bottom began to itch. What if Thorin had left Bag End on his own, just to take an evening stroll? What might he have heard from the neighbours? Such dreadful thoughts buzzed in Bilbo’s poor head as he finally escaped the inn, all but running back home. 

“Thorin!” he called out as soon as he pushed the door open, and startled at the panic in his own voice. What if nothing happened? Wouldn’t it then be just marvellous, having to explain why he had burst into his home breathless and anxious, after a simple evening at the inn? Really, once again, he was running faster than thinking. The Hobbits living around wouldn’t talk to Thorin out of the blue like that; they were fairly shy around him, him being a King, a Dwarf, and still a stranger to most of them. 

“Thorin?” Bilbo called again, more careful now, forcing a jovial casualness into his voice. “It’s been so horribly crowded tonight at the inn, I didn’t feel like–” 

He stopped short in the doorframe of his study, freezing at the sight of Thorin slumped on a chair, pages of handwritten text spread over his lap. The ink was faded, paper yellowed with years, but Bilbo recognised it immediately. 

He didn’t think his damned book could turn up to bite him in the arse twice in one evening. 

“I ran out of ink,” Thorin said in a hollow, mechanical voice. “I thought I’d look for more in here.” 

Bilbo took a cautious step inside. “Thorin, this isn’t–” 

“I knew you were writing a book about our quest,” Thorin continued, as if he talked to himself. “You were talking about it a lot, during that Winter in Erebor.” 

“Yes, but–” 

“And I believe I deserve this, in a way. I attacked you, banished you, took your forgiveness on my deathbed, and selfishly forced you to stay at my side, keeping you away from home–” 

“Thorin, don’t!” Bilbo cried, watching with horror as Thorin lifted one of the pages to his eyes and began to read aloud: 

_“...Farewell, good thief," he said. "I go now to the halls of waiting to sit beside my fathers, until the world is renewed. Since I leave now all gold and silver, and go where it is of little worth, I wish to part in friendship from you, and I would take back my words and deeds at the Gate. If more of us valued food and cheer and song above hoarded gold, it would be a merrier world. But sad or merry, I must leave it now. Farewell!”_


	5. Sorrows

_‘I must leave it now. Farewell!’_  

The words hung like a curse over the room, holding everything still and somehow slanted, unreal, as if under the haze of a spell. There was fire lit in the hearth earlier that evening, the embers still glowing, but Bilbo couldn’t feel its warmth; two candles flickered on the desk, sending restless shadows dancing over the walls, but none of their light reflected in Thorin’s eyes. It was as if by some power of dark magic Bilbo’s unfortunate words had come to pass, as if the King Under the Mountain turned into a statue: heavy, striking, and dead as a stone inside. 

“No.” 

Bilbo took two stumbling steps into the room, snatched the papers from Thorin’s hands and threw them onto the still red brands in the fireplace. They caught fire immediately, twisting and scrunching and finally falling apart into a little pile of soft grey ash. 

“I should have done this as soon as I wrote it,” Bilbo sighed. “You should have never seen that.” 

“It was a fool’s hope,” Thorin said, still sitting on the chair but his back now straight, shoulders set and arms crossed, his entire posture that of a convict bracing himself for the passing of sentence. “I had hoped that our friendship could have survived my mistakes, that it could be rekindled–” 

“Thorin, stop it.” Bilbo would plead with him if he had to. He came over to him and sank to his knees in front of him, wrenching one of Thorin’s hands out of their defensive hold and keeping it in both his own as he spoke, willing all his earnestness and truthfulness to be seen on his face, to be heard in his words: 

“I don’t wish you dead. I never did. This is not how my book ends.” 

Thorin’s hand was so cold. Cold as a stone, and Bilbo could hardly feel the pulse in the veins under his fingertips. It reminded him of the feeling he would get when he pressed his palm against the rock walls inside of Erebor all those years ago: numbing coldness, echoes from the deep forges resonating through the rock like the sluggish heartbeat of the very Mountain, a long abandoned city that felt more like a tomb than a home. Bilbo realised that in one careless evening he had cast away every progress they have achieved during those tentative days together, and he could weep at the thought if there weren’t more pressing matters at hand. 

How could he ever begin to explain? How could he ever tell Thorin of those early days after his coming back to an empty smial, half of his belongings scattered over the Shire, when the heartsickness in him had been so strong sometimes that he would sit down, and drink, and write– 

How could he explain that in the midst of his misery there was a day that he wished he could always remember Thorin as he lay on the ice, drawing what they both thought would be his last breath? Bilbo has never forgotten the face that looked up to him. After months of self-restraint and constant vigilance on the journey that made Thorin always keep a part of him to himself, after days of dreadful sickness that altered his features into those of some unrecognisable stranger, Thorin finally looked – real. Warm, human, flawed – and accepting of his flaws. No more struggling to survive, no more roaming the wilds or haunting a lost, ghost-filled home; he looked at peace. His enemy was dead, the Battle was won, Lonely Mountain was reclaimed. Thorin on the ice, smiling up to Bilbo, was the happiest Bilbo had ever seen him. 

And for a moment of weakness, Bilbo wanted to remember him just like that. Not the living legend Thorin strived to be before and was forced to become after the Battle. Not the smooth statue of strength and regality that sat on the Throne, sickly pale in the glow of the Arkenstone. Not the larger-than-life warrior, not the untouchable King. 

Thorin dying in the Battle... meant a Thorin that Bilbo could bury, mourn, and move on from. No more pining after what would never happen, no more regretting being just a simple Hobbit, forbidden to have the one thing that he wanted. That evening, Bilbo drank himself into oblivion, poured his black heart like the ink onto the paper, and thought that, finally, he was letting go. 

Of course, in the morning, he was horrified by his own selfishness. At no cost, under any reason was a dead Thorin better than Thorin alive. And yet, something good had come from that evening: in penning down his most dark and treacherous thoughts, Bilbo had been reminded of how good it was that it _didn’t_ end that way. Pouring out his selfish hurt into a fanciful story was cathartic, cleansing; his heart was lighter in the morning, his conscience more grateful of reality, and Bilbo hid the pages out of sight and all but forgot about them. 

What a mistake. 

Bilbo pressed the knuckles of Thorin’s hand towards his chest, keeping it against his own beating heart, wishing it to be stronger, surer, enough for both of them. He bowed his head and rested his forehead on Thorin’s knee, silently begging for absolution. 

Perhaps he should have begged aloud, because after a while, he felt cold fingers under his chin, lifting his face upwards, and Thorin slid down from the chair to kneel in front of him, still cupping his chin in a hand carved out of the chilliest rock, until Bilbo couldn’t look anywhere else but into those pale eyes, blue like ice under Ravenhill, frosted over with hurt. 

“I would have liked to have died there,” Thorin whispered. “I would have gone into the Halls of Waiting with a light heart, believing that I had your forgiveness.” 

“But you have it! You always had it!” Bilbo cried. Tears were escaping his eyes and he couldn’t care less. “There was nothing to forgive.” 

“You have said this–” Thorin started trembling and a single tear slid down his cheek, “–and yet you’ve written that–” 

Bilbo pulled him into a tight hug, burying his hands in strands of greying hair, dry and brittle to the touch like frozen reeds in winter. 

“We both did things while we’ve been sick that we regret now,” he murmured. “I missed you, Thorin, I missed you so much that my mind was sick with it, and I felt so alone –” Bilbo pulled back a bit and pressed their foreheads together, “– and I wrote this to remind myself that I _wasn’t_. That you survived. And how lucky I was to see you live on, because it all could have ended so, so much worse.” 

Thorin hid his face in Bilbo’s shoulder and wept, hot tears falling and melting the ice over him and Bilbo held him, running a comforting hand through his hair. At last, he took Thorin’s face in both hands and pressed a kiss into his hair, just above the hairline, the chaste gesture the most daring he allowed himself. Thorin’s arms tightened around him and finally Bilbo could feel his heartbeat, strong again, and relief washed over him so strong that he thought he might faint. 

One of the candles on the table hissed and went out, the burntwick drowning in a puddle of molten wax, and Bilbo reluctantly pulled himself out of the embrace, sniffing and passing a sleeve across his wet eyes. _Where’s a handkerchief when one needs it_ , he chuckled to himself and Thorin smiled at him, hands still resting on his Bilbo’s shoulders like a comforting weight. 

“I don’t know about you, but my knees are killing me,” Bilbo said apologetically and Thorin huffed something like a short laugh, still suspiciously wet but with face so bright and warm that Bilbo couldn’t tear his eyes from it. 

“Why don’t we eat supper,” he suggested, getting up and rubbing at his aching joints, “and then I could read my book to you, so you can see how it really ends.” 

Thorin inclined his head in a show of consideration. “I don’t know. You’ve always been rather fond of sarcasm. I’m afraid I won’t be painted in the most flattering colours there.” 

Bilbo snorted. “I believe I called you a ‘very important Dwarf’ thrice during the first chapter alone. I’m more concerned about reminding you of all that fussing and whining and falling off the cliffs I used to–” 

“Supper first,” Thorin decided. “Heroic deeds of my highly esteemed burglar later.” 

Bilbo followed him out of the study, bickering and laughing away and wondering to himself if Thorin even noticed that he just called him ‘his’.

 

*

 

It is as if the near disaster of Thorin finding the unfortunate alternate ending to Bilbo’s book actually served some good purpose after all, Bilbo reflected several days later. It was like breaking open a rusty window in a long unused room: the shock of a fresh draught almost painful but ultimately clearing out all the dust and foul air that had festered there before. Eventually it dawned on Bilbo that perhaps Thorin never quite believed that he had been forgiven, especially after Bilbo left for the Shire and nary a letter had arrived from him since; and this long-overdue reconciliation seemed to finally erase every last one of those doubts for good. 

Bilbo took to reading aloud from his red leather-bound book in the evenings, as promised. At first, he was afraid of what might come of it, prepared to mentally edit every part that held the danger of revealing the feelings the Burglar had for the King. On the other hand, Thorin was a Dwarf, and not likely to gather the same impressions from the text like Bilbo’s prissy relatives with a secret penchant for romantic tales were prone to do. Moreover, Thorin was actually there in the flesh, when the story unfolded, and if he didn’t notice the hearts in Bilbo’s eyes on the road, he would hardly notice them on the pages of a road journal, Bilbo thought to himself and read away. 

Thorin improved every day. His cough was long gone, his appetite starting to rival that of his Hobbit host, his skin catching a bit of colour from long afternoons spent walking or sitting in Bilbo’s garden with a pipe, he sang more, he laughed more. Bilbo cherished every sign like a personal victory. _Maybe I can’t grow a tomato to save my life, but at least I can set something right._  

“You should have included more of your diplomatic achievements,” Thorin remarked one morning on their way to the market, eyes crinkled in a way that reminded Bilbo of Kíli, when the youngster was about to pull a magnificent prank. It was such an unusual look on the face of the generally sombre Dwarf that Bilbo drank in the sight, dropping his attention to his surroundings altogether. 

“No, no, no,” Bilbo protested, waving his finger in front of Thorin’s nose for good measure, oblivious to the curious, amused (mostly from the Tooks) and condescending (courtesy of the Sackvilles and Bracegirdles) looks that were directed at them from the busy marketplace. “History doesn’t need to know how I nearly started _another_ feud between the Mountain and the Forest on the _one_ occasion I sat with you in the Council, thank you very much.” 

“But my dear Burglar, it was _most_ amusing,” Thorin chuckled. “I have never seen the Elvenking so disgruntled.” 

“And I say, it served him right!” Bilbo exclaimed. “Insinuating that I had _tampered_ with the dungeon guard’s food in order to get the keys...!” 

Several Hobbits within the earshot gasped collectively. Bilbo didn’t notice it; caught up in reliving the righteous fury of that memorable Council. For some reason, the Elvenking didn’t seem able to let go of the matter of the Dwarves escaping his cells; and especially, the Hobbit’s role in it. 

_“Nobody should be able to get past my guards,” Thranduil stated in that melodious voice of his that flowed smoothly like the river under Eryn Lasgalen, hiding dangerous undercurrents under a deceptively calm surface._

_“I’ll have you know that I can be remarkably light on my feet,” Bilbo rejoined. “I was hired to be a burglar, so forgive me, O King, if I actually managed to do my job!”_

_“I keep wondering,” the Elvenking hissed. “The guards in charge that evening couldn’t be woken until next morning. Maybe not just a thief, but a poisoner as well!”_

_At this point, Thorin could barely contain himself under Balin’s stern gaze. Bilbo, however, had no such restraint. He stood up from his chair, one hand stuck in his waistcoat pocket in what Thorin assumed to be a show of cockiness, and executed the most perfunctory bow the halls of Erebor had ever the disgrace of witnessing._

_“Your Majesty, allow me to take my leave,” he said to Thorin. “It would seem that your talks will go better if your Woodland ally won’t have to worry about the contents of his cup.”_

_And with that, Bilbo made for the door. Confusion flickered briefly across Thorin’s face. Bilbo’s heard far worse from Thranduil before and hadn’t batted an eyelash; and such a petty accusation would make his blood boil? Then he noticed that Bilbo changed the course of his retreat at the last moment, not exiting the hall but taking what seemed a leisurely stroll around the periphery of the large room. Perhaps he wanted to hear the rest of the meeting, perhaps he just needed a minute to calm down..._

_Thorin focussed back on the matters at hand and with a magnificent patience managed to discuss the next two points with the devious tree-shagger who seemed to bask in his private victory in driving Bilbo away from the table, when he noticed the smugness gradually leaving Thranduil’s face, inexplicably and by increments being replaced by disconcertment._

_He followed the direction of Thranduil’s distracted gaze and noticed Bilbo, on what must have been his second circuit around the hall, just disappearing behind one of the great pillars that supported the hall ceiling in a circle not far from the walls._

_The pillar base being so huge, and Bilbo’s form so small, Thorin waited dutifully a second for him to emerge on the other side. Except that Bilbo didn’t show up there._

_He emerged a couple of seconds later – on the other side of the pillar next in line._

_Thorin blinked. Thranduil bit his lip. Bilbo continued to the next pillar._

_However Thorin tried, he didn’t notice Bilbo running or sneaking to the next one, from where he strolled on, like it was the most pleasant walk he took since leaving the Shire. Thranduil nearly upset his wine cup. Thorin smiled deviously._

_He managed to get Thranduil to sign four agreements that day, the Elvenking being too distracted for his own good._

Thorin was still laughing at the memory when Bilbo approached the bakery stall, ordering a loaf of his favourite bread. 

“It’s no laughing matter, young man,” the stall owner addressed Thorin, frowning at the Dwarven King from under her impressive white braids woven twice around her wrinkled head. 

“Accusing a Hobbit of poisoning, what a blasphemy!” the Hobbit matron continued indignantly, before Thorin could protest her calling him a young man. “We Hobbits hold few things dearer than our food, and to imply that we could do anything to anyone’s dish – oh, that Elvenking of yours should know better!” 

“Aye, Madam,” Thorin agreed, his manner, as Bilbo noticed with a shiver of pride and affection, always impeccably polite around elders. “I am well aware. Master Baggins had made his point quite clear.” 

“Oh, quit the Master and Madam nonsense, dear!” The old baker giggled, shoving a couple of extra pastries into Bilbo’s basket. “You don’t need that amongst family, and everyone and their wife in Hobbiton is related to the Bagginses anyhow–” 

“Thank you so much for the pastries, Aunt Caramella,” Bilbo interrupted her. “You always remember that the cinnamon ones are my favourite, don’t you?” 

“Why, yes, of course, and let me see, I had some of the cheese cake you like somewhere in here...” Caramella’s white head disappeared behind the stall counter and Bilbo seized that opportunity to drag Thorin away. 

“It was the insult, yes,” Bilbo resumed their conversation about that hilarious Council incident in hopes of steering Thorin’s mind away from his great-aunt’s conversational slip, “but at the time, I was mainly concerned by what should have happened to Thranduil’s guards if he didn’t let that matter go and eventually discovered that they were stone drunk on the King’s best wine when I took the keys. I bet he would cut off their hair or something equally and ridiculously horrendous, so I had to convince him that yes, indeed, I was a burglar that could walk unseen.” 

“You’ll never tell _me_ how you did it, will you?” Thorin grumbled. 

“Secrets of the trade, O King,” Bilbo laughed and showed half of the cinnamon pastry into his mouth.

 

*

 

“You sure it won’t be a problem?” Primula tucked the shirt-tails properly into little Frodo’s trousers and for the umpteenth time attempted to smooth the unruly curls falling into the fauntling’s eyes. 

“It never was and never will be, Prim,” Bilbo smiled. “You know that Frodo and I get along perfectly. And Thorin is over two hundred years old, it’s not like this lad will be the first child he’s ever seen.” 

“Oh my,” Primula sighed and pushed her son through the front gate at Bag End. The fauntling’s hand immediately went into that of his favourite uncle and Frodo shuffled his feet impatiently. Like every  Hobbit in Hobbiton, little or old, Frodo was endlessly curious about what the new inhabitant of Bag End was like. 

“He doesn’t look a day over fifty! Dwarfs are a strange folk,” Primula chatted on, rearranging the picnic basket on her elbow. “But it seems it rubbed off on you, at least, dear cousin – you don’t look a day older than when you eloped with him all those years ago, and that’s a good thing, if you ask me,” she teased. 

Bilbo prayed that Thorin was still abed and asleep in the far bedroom. Drogo and Prim had planned their boat trip to take all day, and Thorin was never one to wake up for the first breakfast. 

“I’ll thank you not to call my adventure an _elopement_ ,” Bilbo kept his voice low, casting an uneasy glance over his shoulder. Primula only laughed. 

“But it’s what it basically was,” she noted. “Plus the dragon, of course.” 

“Great,” Bilbo sighed. “Best of luck with your trip, Prim. You’ll need it, with my cousin Drogo on a boat. He’s a Baggins through and through, I dare not ask whatever you did to convince him to go.” 

“Don’t fret, Bilbo!” Primula grinned. “I was born a Brandybuck, and I cross the river at Bucklebury Ferry every week. We’ll be just fine. Frodo, behave,” she addressed her son and went to her husband who stood a little way down the road and waited, never one for chatting. Bilbo waved them off as they turned down the road and then he bent down to look little Frodo in the eye. 

“Well, young man. Fancy helping me with a batch of scones for second breakfast?”

 

*

 

Later in the afternoon, Bilbo leaned with his back against an apple tree trunk, stretching his aching knees, and with a happy smile surveyed the scene in front of him. Frodo was digging in the vegetable beds, big jar at his feet half full of earthworms, and every now and then he got up, carefully carrying another slug away from the salads into a big bucket in the hands of Thorin, who followed the wee gardener from one place to another like a dutiful page. 

“What are you going to do with them?” The Dwarven King peered at the swarming contents of the bucket with no small amount of disgust. “Why don’t we just leave the salads to them? They seem to like it.” 

“Well, I happen to like it too!” Bilbo groused. “And I don’t like those little buggers getting to every head before me.” This year, the salads and strawberries finally seemed to grow like they should, and it looked like the slugs from near and far passed around the news and invaded Bilbo’s garden in hordes. 

“We won’t kill them, right, Uncle Bilbo?” Frodo turned his wide blue eyes to the resting Hobbit. “We could take them to the riverbank. They like wet places.” 

“Or we could take them to your Aunt Lobelia’s garden next time she makes off with another silver spoon of mine,” Bilbo muttered under his breath. 

“Thrushes living around the Lonely Mountain often catch snails,” Thorin offered. “Maybe the crows would eat them?” 

“Yuck,” Frodo grimaced, pushing his curls away from his eyes and smearing dirt over half of his face in the process. “I don’t want crows eating the slugs, Uncle Thorin.” 

Bilbo tuned out the rest of the debate, closing his eyes and turning his face towards the warm afternoon sun. A pleasant ache from a day’s work in the garden and a deep sense of contentment spread through him and he sighed with happiness. Thorin, as Bilbo expected, was simply a natural with children. A lifetime of dealing with Fíli and Kíli would do that to a Dwarf, Bilbo thought to himself and grinned. Frodo was ten years old by Shire reckoning, which means he looked (and very much behaved, too) like a thirty-something beardless Dwarfling, a cute little thing with big blue eyes and dark unruly curls, the colouring reminding Bilbo of his mother Belladona. Definitely not a Baggins trait, their heads tended to have the colours of copper or honey. Maybe it was the Bree blood that rumours assigned to the Brandybuck folk, Bilbo didn’t know and frankly, didn’t care. For him, it was the adventuring blood, for in little Frodo’s eyes he saw the same far away longing he used to see in the eyes of his mother, and he liked the boy all the more for it. 

Bilbo had suggested to Thorin earlier that it was customary for little fauntlings to call every grown-up ‘Uncle’ or ‘Aunt’ even though they weren’t related, and Thorin didn’t question it. As Bilbo sat under the tree, fresh blossom buds promising a plenitude of apples this year at last, he allowed himself a little moment of wishful fantasy. He and Thorin, Uncles under the Hill. There was such a nice ring to it. 

It was such a beautiful day. 

“Master Bilbo!” Bell Gamgee’s voice echoed to him through the house. “Master Bilbo?” 

“On my way!” Bilbo called out, getting to his feet and dusting off his trousers. “You two, no tramping over the carrots. I wonder,” he continued to himself as he went into the house, “what has got dear Bell so worked up? She never sounds this distressed.”

 

*

 

Thorin found him later, sitting a bit under the Hill top and staring onto his garden, where little Frodo still played with the earthworms. 

“I’ll have to tell him,” Bilbo said, when he felt a familiar presence behind his back. His voice shook a little. Primula’s parting words still echoed through his mind. _We’ll be just fine_. Bell Gamgee left in tears just a while ago, supported by her equally shaken husband, and Bilbo didn’t even remember how he got atop the Hill until he was there, fingers digging into soft green grass and tears burning behind his eyelids. 

Oh, Hobbits and boats. 

“How do you tell a little boy that his parents aren’t coming back?” 

Bilbo felt a large hand on his shoulder, squeezing gently. He grasped it and held onto it like on a lifeline. 

“Fíli was just as old when his father died in Azanulbizar,” Thorin said. “I told him he had to be brave for his mother.” 

Bilbo swallowed more tears and sniffed. His voice still sounded unusually high and shaky when he spoke. “He doesn’t have anyone. The Brandybucks could take him in, but he’s grown up in the Shire, not across the river. And I’ll be sooner damned than if I let him fall into the clutches of the Sackville-Bagginses. Their Lotho is a nasty little prat.” 

“Frodo likes you,” Thorin said after a pause. It didn’t sound like a guess or a suggestion. Merely a statement of a fact. 

“But I can’t–” Bilbo stared at him, completely at loss of words. How could he explain to Thorin that his respectable relatives would never let him take care of a child when he lived unmarried and alone? A bachelor in charge of a child? Among the Big Folk, perhaps, but in the Shire it would be scandalous. Unheard-of. Children needed family, everyone knew that. 

Thorin gazed back at him, a shadow of disappointment settling deep in the blue of those eyes, and something in Bilbo crumbled. Everyone in the Shire assumed he was married to Thorin, so what? As long as he managed to keep his secret, he’ll be allowed to keep Frodo. Oh, he was going to regret this, he knew that already. But for now, Bilbo nodded to himself and rubbed the tears off his face. 

“You’re right, Thorin. I’ll give him a home.” He let himself be pulled to his feet by Thorin’s strong hand and squeezed it back, enjoying the sense of rightness and strength it gave him. His eyes wandered over the hill side towards the garden once more, when he spotted something that nearly made him trip over his feet. 

On a little level patch of earth, sheltered by a nearby rock, still guarded by the remnants of a low fence of twigs Bilbo once raised around it to keep hares and other little creatures away from fresh green, grew a fresh oak sapling. Its first three leaves swayed gently in the evening breeze, no more than a few days old, and yet Bilbo instantly recognised those leaves, far larger than those of a normal oak. It was his acorn from Béorn’s garden. 

“I thought it was dead,” Bilbo stammered. Thorin looked at him in confusion. “The acorn, Thorin!” Bilbo exclaimed. “I shall take it as a good omen,” he said in a lower voice, as if to himself. “When this oak could find its home at Bag End, maybe Frodo would too.” 

With that, Bilbo squared his shoulders and braved his way back to the house and through the garden to the little boy. Thorin stared after him, lost in thought. 

“Good omen,” he muttered to himself. “Oak of Bag End.”


	6. A Wedding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More Hobbits. More problems.

_A month later_

 

“If anybody asked me, as I am sure they won’t, I’d tell them,” old Camellia Baggins née Sackville seethed under her breath, careful that her voice wouldn’t carry over to the other tables. “It’s a travesty, that’s what it is. A Baggins, going to marry some Burrows nobody!” 

Beside Bilbo, Thorin shifted in his seat. Bilbo has been uneasy all day when the invitation for the wedding arrived, which didn’t match at all with Thorin’s general impression of Hobbit nature that was supposed to enjoy any and all occasions for food, drink, and song. After half an hour at one table with some of Bilbo’s relatives, Thorin thought he was beginning to understand Bilbo’s reluctance to attend.  

“Milo Burrows is a good lad. He’s going to run his father’s soliciting business one day and Peony couldn’t ask for a more doting husband,” Bilbo said mildly. “It’s clear as day that the lad adores the ground she steps on.” 

Thorin leaned closer to Bilbo to murmur directly into his ear, ignoring the disapproving gaze of the old Baggins Matron. “Do the girl’s parents resent the marriage?” 

Bilbo raised his eyebrows. “What, Posco and Gilly? No, not at all.” He glanced at Thorin, something careful and apprehensive flickering briefly behind his eyes that left Thorin wondering. “Why? Would the Dwarves forbid someone to marry who they wished just because they were a bit socially mismatched?” Bilbo continued in a low voice. 

“Certainly not,” Thorin snorted and thought a bit guiltily about Kíli’s ten year long wait for Tauriel. “Well,” he amended under the weight of Bilbo’s knowing gaze, “there’s nothing wrong with a long courtship. Hastily made unions are the first to break under the strain of mutual differences, and it also gives time for the less privileged suitor to prove themselves worthy instead of relying solely on their family background. But as long as the love is true, nobody would dare to stand in the way.” 

“I’m glad to hear that,” Bilbo whispered and then continued in normal voice, levelling his eyes upon Camellia, “and as it is, while the Bagginses are one of the richest and noblest families in the Shire, we shouldn’t restrict ourselves to only intermarrying with other noble clans, as in that case–” 

Lobelia Sackville-Baggins, who indeed married into the family from her not-so-stellar home in Hardbottle, stiffened beside Camellia when she realised where Bilbo was steering the conversation, and hastily interrupted him: 

“You’re right, dear cousin. Love is all that matters, in the end.” 

Bilbo nodded, obviously content not to press the matter any further. Out of the corner of his eye, Thorin sized up the younger Hobbitess across the table. Her hat was the most hideous thing he’s ever seen, even taking into account Bofur’s trials and errors during his younger years, and there was a permanent scowl etched into the lines framing her down-turned mouth, and yet behind her shrewd eyes flickered something that gave Thorin the impression that she once was, and might still be, a strong-willed, well-principled, and overall rather amiable woman, were it not for the over-bearing influence of her mother-in-law. Bilbo had partially confirmed this observation earlier when he was briefing Thorin on the impressive complexity of his extended family, saying that Lobelia’s husband Otho was a pitifully weak-spirited man and that their entire marriage was, in fact, ruthlessly governed by old Camellia. 

By now, Thorin already knew enough of Hobbit customs to know that after the wedding, the bride would move in with her husband’s family, and live there until the young couple amassed means enough to build their own home. Perhaps that was why Lobelia was so eager to get her hands on Bag End, Thorin mused, as it would mean a way to escape the household of her in-laws.  It also made the fact that Bungo once built Bag End as a courting gift for Belladonna even more impressive. 

“So, one of the noblest families, you say?” Thorin asked after a while, prompting an expected eye-roll from Bilbo. 

“Yes, as I’m sure I mentioned numerous times and ways during the journey to Erebor. We are a good family, of unimpeachable reputation.” Bilbo lifted his mug of cider – the barrels with ale were to be rolled out later, after the ceremony – to his lips to hide the muttered amendment: “At least, until I rushed off chasing after a bunch of crazy Dwarves.” 

“Right you are, cousin!” a heavy hand of Posco Baggins landed on Bilbo’s shoulder. Bilbo swallowed a little larger mouthful of cider than he intended, winced, and turned around to greet the bride’s father who probably decided to catch the end of their conversation. Waving his, fortunately empty, mug in an exaggerate circle around them, Posco addressed Thorin: “There’s no better example in the entire Shire for what a proper Hobbit should be like, than the Baggins family! Truly, Master Dwarf, you couldn’t have picked anyone better for a–” 

“How’s Gilly? Milking the whole Bride’s Mother business for all that it’s worth?” Bilbo asked, looking around the tables assembled in two rows in front of the wedding maypole under which the betrothed couple was meant to exchange vows. Milo Burrows already waited there, looking slightly dazed and decidedly pale, very much like every groom Bilbo has ever seen. 

“Pinning what’s hopefully the last of the ruffles on Peony and terrorizing her Chief Bridesmaid about the flower crowns, last I saw her,” grinned Posco and added: “Brace yourselves. It’s about to begin.” 

“Thank Mahal,” Frodo groaned from his seat next to Bilbo, tugging woefully at the starched collar of his best shirt. Bilbo nearly spat out his cider – again. Thorin grinned, entirely unapologetic. Bilbo shook his head at him but his glare lacked fire. A cheeky Frodo was a considerable improvement from the state the boy was after his parents’ death and Bilbo never tired of repeating how grateful he was for Thorin’s presence at Bag End, since it seemed that the Dwarf could draw the grieving boy out of his shell better than anyone. Even if it meant picking up a few bad habits. 

When the wedding invitation came, Thorin expected some simple, rural ceremony, pies, roast, ale, more ale, and dancing. It took an entire afternoon for Bilbo to point out all the wrongs of that assumption. 

The seating order alone could give Thorin a headache if he had been the one to put it together. Then there was an enormous hassle about flowers, and apparently, when Bilbo once said that the Hobbits had songs for every occasion, he wasn’t exaggerating. 

“We Hobbits love our songs and rhymes almost as much as we love our food,” Bilbo had told him. “A good tune is like a seasoning for the mood, and a beautiful one is the food for the soul. Do you think it was your friendly disposition or your respectable manners that made me come with you on your quest? Trust me, Thorin: if I hadn’t heard you singing the Song of the Lonely Mountain, I wouldn’t have come.” 

For the weddings, there were traditional songs, with simple and yet moving tunes, like the Song of Wedding Guests’ Blessing  or the Song of Maidens, which all the yet unmarried lasses sang merrily, their bright voices like glockenspiel, as they escorted the Bride out of her home and onto the party place. There was the Song of Newlyweds, which was, according to everyone, a _bigdeal_ , because it had to be an original for each and every wedding, and Thorin could only imagine the social disaster that would occur if neither of the betrothed were able to string together a couple of verses. But right now Thorin found himself entranced by the song that rang out after the Bride stopped on her way to the maypole in front of her parents’ seats, bowing before them with a very unusual song on her lips – strange, to Thorin, for its sadness. He didn’t have his harp on him to check, but he was certain that the song was in minor key, and the plaintive way the tune rose and fell reminded him of Laments.

 

_Winds are blowing_

_Oh so cold in countryside_

_Blooms are growing_

_For the crown of the bride_

_Ai, Mother mine_

_This is my wedding day_

_Oh sweet Mother mine_

_Tonight I must away_

 

 

“Why is the tune so mournful?” Thorin whispered to Bilbo. “I thought the prospect of marrying was supposed to be joyous.” 

“It’s one of the traditionals,” Bilbo whispered back. “She’s leaving her childhood home to live with her new husband. She’s going to miss her parents and they’re going to miss her, even though they know she’s going to be happy. There’s a bit of sadness in every joy, I think. It’s never easy to leave your home behind.” 

Thorin’s mind flew back to the moment on the slopes of the Misty Mountains so many years ago, when the previously so home-sick, burdensome and infuriating creature looked the crownless, homeless King calmly in the eyes and declared that he wasn’t going back to his own cosy home before he helped them get back their own. 

“I see,” Thorin said at last, and he had to gulp down a sip of cider for his suddenly dry throat. “You Hobbit have a good sense of the true value of home. Is that why the song was so sad?” 

“Oh, don’t worry, it’s no big deal,” Bilbo grinned. “It’s just an old tradition. She’s going to be seeing more of her parents than her husband will be happy with in the future, you can bet on it.” They shared a chuckle. “Besides,” Bilbo continued, as if to himself, “true home is where the heart is...” 

So it went on, songs were sung (and explained to Thorin in whispers), speeches were given, vows exchanged and flower petals thrown into the air, until at last the newlywed couple found themselves amidst a circle of expectant family and guests, star-eyed, holding hands and blushing.

 

_Water smoothens stone_

_With the gentlest touch_

_True love knows no bounds or fences_

_Do not think of differences_

_When you love so much_

 

“Well, that’s very nice,” remarked someone in the crowd around them. Thorin noticed Bilbo smiling, as if some weight has been lifted from his shoulders. Perhaps he’s looking forward to the end of this just as much as Frodo is, he thought. 

“Certainly fitting,” someone else agreed. “Well done. But then, the Burrows family always knew their way around words, with them being solicitors and all.” 

Meanwhile, the song continued with a line just for Milo–

 

_You’re my one true love_

 

–after which Peony responded with a line of her own–

 

_And you are my own_

 

–before they finished again in unison:

 

_You and I are meant together_

_Being with your heart is better_

_Than to live alone._

 

The crowd cheered, the pair kissed, little Frodo threw last of his supply of petals on their heads, and someone stomped on Thorin’s foot. Truly, it had been a very good ceremony, and it was over at last. 

Soon enough, the party began in the true Hobbit spirit Thorin has been expecting from the start, and sometimes it even surpassed his expectations, like for example the speed with which the food tables had been cleared. Ale flowed freely and pairs began milling around in dance, and after the Proudfoots followed suit, Thorin lifted his feet onto the table to spare them from being stepped on for what must have been the fourth or fifth time. He thought he was well-shod when he arrived at the Shire, not with his iron-tipped heavy boots but still with a good pair of sturdy leather boots (which were attracting a fair amount of attention right now, but thankfully without any comments), but he soon realised that they were meagre protection against the impact of a Hobbit bare foot, with their soles as hard as horse hooves – and clad with iron horseshoes as well, from the feel of it. 

Bilbo never strayed away from his side for more than a moment, and there was a tension in the way he kept looking over his shoulders and twitching his nose that reminded Thorin of a rabbit venturing out of his hole, knowing that the skies above were full of eagles. It was ridiculous, Thorin thought; even though the Dwarf hadn’t had much interaction with the Hobbits in the past few weeks, he was no longer a stranger to Shire ways and even if he did something to offend them, the Hobbits of Bilbo’s extended family always seemed ready to give him the benefit of the doubt. It surprised Thorin how accepting of him they were; during his one winter in Erebor, Bilbo had to suffer constant down-the-nose looks from Dwarves who took pride in hiding behind the walls of secret language and culture that hadn’t changed in ages, Dwarves who were quick to show contempt for every blunder on Bilbo’s side. Thorin had expected the same from the respectable Hobbits of the Shire, and instead the majority of them, once their curiosity was sated, merely shrugged and accepted him as if he were kin. It was unexpected, but it pleased him. They called him Master Thorin, in a strange mix of politeness and familiarity, and it was almost refreshing not to be ‘Your Majesty’-ed around for a change. 

He noticed their neighbour, Hamfast Gamgee, at one of the tables across the dancing ground, pouring out little cups of what must have been his famous pear brandy. Well, that was an idea. 

“Not afraid of stronger drinks, Dwarves, are they?” Hamfast handed him a half-filled cup. He winked. “Care for a drinking game?” 

“Maybe later,” Bilbo interjected from behind them. “Sorry to be a spoilsport, Thorin, but Frodo already thinks you hung the stars and the Moon and I’ll thank you not to give him a demonstration of the extents of Dwarven alcohol tolerance.” 

“About that,” Bell Gamgee looked up from where she was wiping the face of her son clean of numerous layers of various cake fillings. “It’s high time for the young’uns to go to beddy-byes. I’m taking Sam home, and I can tuck your lad in as well – what say you about a sleepover, Frodo?”  

Frodo nodded, hiding a huge yawn behind the back of his hand. He and little Samwise have been thick as thieves ever since Frodo came to live at Bag End, and Bilbo could kiss her neighbour for helping to create the most inviting home for the orphaned lad. He bent down to kiss Frodo’s cheek instead and sent him off. 

“And here I thought that Fíli and Kíli were the most un-brotherly looking pair of brothers I’ve ever seen,” Thorin remarked, eyes on the crowd, and then nearly spilled his brandy as Bilbo spun around to him as if stung and accidentally elbowed him in the process. 

“Sorry, sorry! Can’t hear properly over this racket,” Bilbo stammered. “What did you say?” 

Thorin pointed subtly towards another table where a pair of middle-aged Hobbits, one short and dark as a coal mine gnome and the other overtopping him by a head, with coppery curls and freckles all over his button-like nose. They were hanging by each other’s shoulders and shoving bits of cake into each other’s laughing mouths. 

“Ah, that’s funny!” Hamfast barked out a loud laugh. “You see, Master Thorin, that’s the Brandybucks over there, Briffo and Harimac, they are–” 

“Nowhere near sobriety, already, as usual,” Bilbo interrupted them. “Be sure not to pour out any brandy to them tonight, they seem to manage all too well on ale alone.” 

Bilbo looked like he was about to say something more but right then the newly-wed Peony all but barrelled into him, face flushed under her flower crown and the laces on her skirts ruffled beyond redemption, put her arm through his and began to pull him towards the dancing ground before Bilbo could get a word in edgeways. 

“Master Bilbo! You have to dance with me! Bridal prerogative!” 

Thorin caught sight of the alarmed look Bilbo shot him over his shoulder and sent him a reassuring smile before he was swept into the whirl of dance. Really, it wasn’t as if he needed Bilbo at his side all the time like a nanny.

“Well, Master Thorin.” Saradoc Brandybuck, one of Bilbo’s numerous cousins, joined them, refilled his cup of brandy and leaned against the table, overlooking the party with a beatific smile. 

“That’s what a proper wedding looks like. Quite the step up from that simple Dwarven business of yours, isn’t it?” 

Thorin wondered briefly if the pear brandy wasn’t affecting his hearing. He turned to Saradoc with a confused frown, while the Hobbit prattled on: 

“Not that I’m overlooking the benefits of practicality, but such a merry occasion should deserve a bit of a feast, don’t you think?” 

It must have been the brandy. “I beg your pardon?”

 

*

 

Perhaps he did need Bilbo around like a nanny after all, a small part of Thorin’s mind wondered later, because when Bilbo finally shook off the dance-eager bride and made it back to the table, the Hobbit arrived right into the middle of a shouting match between an increasingly bewildered Dwarf and half of Bilbo’s family. The King, frankly, didn’t know what hit him. There he was, being as amiable as you please, putting his best efforts into making conversation, and suddenly there’s a Hobbit yelling right into his face. 

“What’s going on?” exclaimed Bilbo as soon as he caught his breath. 

“I’ll tell you, cousin, what’s going on!” Saradoc shouted. “I asked this Master Dwarf–” the last syllable left his mouth together with a few droplets of spit that nearly landed in Thorin’s beard, “– here, if he would agree that our Hobbit parties are far better than their ‘sign-here-and-here’ business, and he says, quite the contrary, Master Hobbit, and then he goes on _and on_ about how grand and spectacular Dwarvish wedding are and how a royal wedding can take _a week_ –” 

“Oh sweet Eru,” muttered Bilbo. 

Thorin didn’t know where he went wrong. Was it impolite to boast about the profound complexity and lavishness of a traditional Dwarven wedding ceremony in the middle of another culture’s wedding party? The two couldn’t compare, of course, but he wasn’t the first to start the debate. And as usual, when Thorin didn’t understand, he found himself crossing his arms and adopting a scowl that only seemed to add fuel to the fire. 

“If you think I am exaggerating–” he began, but Saradoc was nowhere near finished. 

“–and then I naturally couldn’t help but ask, why Bilbo didn’t get to have this? And he–” Saradoc pointed a furious finger at the Dwarf, “–he says, utterly brazen, why would a Hobbit want a Dwarven wedding?! Well I never!” 

“Yes, why?” Thorin was frowning and his eyes sought out Bilbo. The Hobbit stood there, arms hanging limply by his sides, an expression of defeat across his face. Thorin didn’t understand. Did the Hobbit want to see a wedding while he was in Erebor? It was true that he had a scholarly nature and that he eagerly absorbed everything he could learn about every culture he came across, but surely he understood that during his time in the Mountain, with the reconstruction underway, wedding ceremonies were the last thing on anyone’s mind. 

Saradoc all but exploded. “Listen, you pretentious git, we all like you because you make Bilbo happy, but if you think you can go and deprive him of a proper wedding, then you’ve got another thing coming! Bilbo here is just as respectable a Hobbit as you are a Dwarf and if you think that a Hobbit is not cultured enough for your traditions then I can tell you exactly where you can shove them!” 

He makes Bilbo happy? Thorin registered with bewilderment, and then the more important part of the rant knocked the wind out of his lungs. Deprive Bilbo of a proper wedding? Bilbo wanted to marry someone in Erebor? What was this devilry – there weren’t even any Dwarrowdams at the time Bilbo stayed there... and Thorin particularly didn’t want to analyse why the thought of Bilbo marrying someone suddenly hurt like a stab wound to the chest. 

“This is all a misunderstanding, really,” Bilbo pleaded. “Dwarves take these things very differently–” 

But his Brandybuck cousin couldn’t be stopped. He took another step up to Thorin and yelled: “Was it because Bilbo stole that silly shiny stone of yours? Were you so ashamed of him that you two only had a hush-hush wedding or what?!” 

Thorin’s face blanched and he clenched his fists. Fury over the Arkenstone debacle being thrown in his face rose like a flame and then it was just as abruptly quenched by the utter shock of that _nonsense_ the infuriating Hobbit was spouting. To imply that he was _ashamed_ of Bilbo...! And to add insult to the injury, to think that he would _disrespect_ him in such a hideous way as taking him as his mate in some illicit ceremony...! 

He opened his mouth to deny it with all his might when, through the racket of Bilbo’s relatives talking over one another mingled with the noise of the wedding party singing and dancing in the background, a small sound reached him: a little cry, like a last breath of a drowning man before the sea swallowed him. “Thorin, please.” 

Thorin froze, eyes fixed on Bilbo’s, the quiet plea in them almost tangible, like a string tugging at his very heart. A second passed in silence, a moment of calm in the eye of a storm, and Thorin felt as if he was swaying on the verge of a precipice, not-quite-falling but not safe on his feet any more. Various incidents from recent days floated inside of his head, now illuminated by this dawning thought – that baker woman calling him family, those two publicly affectionate Hobbits who _weren’t brothers_ , Bilbo’s nervousness around his relatives... 

“Or is it that they aren’t married after all?” the shrill voice of Camellia Baggins cut through the silence and all hell broke loose. 

“What a disgrace!” the old Matron shrieked, her voice rising above the cacophony. “Living together out of wedlock! How could you bring a child to be raised in such an immodest household?!” 

Thorin watched, dumbstruck, how Bilbo’s face paled, how his nostrils flared and his entire form hunched forwards, breath coming quicker – it was the same defensive posture he’s had when he jumped in front of Thorin and stabbed an orc under burning fir trees, and suddenly, Thorin understood. Bilbo wanted to protect Frodo. For some strange reason, he needed everyone believing that they were married, that their home and family was complete. And if they weren’t... 

“I’ve always thought it sounded too far-fetched, a King marrying a Hobbit!” Lobelia added grist to her mother-in-law’s mill. 

“Ever since you ran away with the Dwarves, Bilbo, you’ve been dragging the family name through the mud, and I won’t let you spoil that innocent lad–” 

“Silence!” bellowed Thorin. A voice trained to issue commands on raging battlefields had the intended effect: everyone, including Camellia, shut up. 

Thorin drew in a deep breath and said, very quietly: “I won’t hear another word from your filthy mouth against the hero of Erebor who saved my life on more than one occasion.” Camellia visibly shrank under his fierce glare and Thorin lifted his voice a little, enough to be heard over the background music: 

“It’s not a shame for a Dwarf to be married to a Hobbit,” he addressed the worked-up Brandybuck. Then he squared his shoulders and assumed the most authoritative pose, letting the full weight of his royal bearing infuse every word of his next statement: “To be Bilbo’s husband is the greatest honour of my life.”  

His heart cracked like faulty pottery in an over-heated kiln when he realised how much he wished those words were true. But this was for Frodo, he reminded himself. Bilbo loved Frodo, and Thorin would do anything to help Bilbo keep the boy. 

The assembled Hobbits let out a collective gasp of relief and some of them began to applaud. “But – what about the wedding, Bilbo?” Saradoc tried to call out over the excitement. Thorin looked around. “Bilbo? Bilbo!” 

“He was right there,” Hamfast Gamgree scratched his head, looking at the empty spot by the table.  “And then suddenly wasn’t...“ He cast a suspicious glance at his own empty cup of pear brandy. „I think I’ve had enough,“ he muttered vaguely. 

“I, too,” Thorin agreed, and he didn’t mean drink. He had to get back to Bag End before Bilbo did anything he would regret. 

He was about to turn his back on the whole merry gathering when he felt a light tug on his sleeve. Turning around, he found Milo Burrows smiling up at him from under his wilting flower crown. The boy was lucky to miss the whole ado, as he quite understandably only had eyes for his new wife. 

“Would you send my thanks to Bilbo?” the boy whispered. “For the song, I mean. I never had the head for rhymes,” Milo smiled and shuffled his feet, “and I wanted to impress Peony and Master Bilbo wrote so many wonderful songs and he agreed to help me–” 

Thorin would be impressed by the sheer amount of words the Hobbit managed to pour out on a single breath if he hadn’t been rather in a hurry right then– 

“–and it was such a beautiful song in the end, wasn’t it?” Milo finished and looked over his shoulder, eyes searching for Peony again. 

“It was,” Thorin nodded. Milo smiled brightly and vanished back into the milling crowd.  

As Thorin walked up the Hill, the simple words of the first few verses came back to his mind. A beautiful song, indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The songs used in this chapters are my translations of Czech wedding songs, both traditional and new. I kept the rhytms to the tune so you can sing it along.
> 
> The Song of a Bride is a real thing, a Moravian folk song. You can listen to it in three-voice harmony [ here ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5UyNdj3NGjk). It's literally the bride bemoaning the fact that she has to leave her mother and I've always been fascinated by the dichotomy of such a sad tune on such an ocassion. 
> 
> The Song of Newlyweds is my translation of the last two stanzas of a main theme song for the Czech TV fairytale "S čerty nejsou žerty" (I really don't know how to translate it, it literally says No messing with the devils:)), you can hear the tune on the 1 minute mark in [ this video. ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3xpSb_DxS8I).


	7. Resolution

Bilbo ran up the Hill, relying on his feet to lead the way on the familiar route, his eyes full of tears and half useless anyway with the world shifting and swimming around him, as it always did when he was under the veil of his ring. He heard cries from behind, and maybe music too; he couldn’t be sure. Sounds were coming to him as if through deep waters, distorted and without a proper sense of direction, as if he was hearing with his bones instead of his ears.  

Breath, rush of air, disconnected stab of pain in his toe, strong urge to _get there_ without even knowing clearly where _there_ was; that was all Bilbo could register in his panic. Not fear, not shame, not despair: those were emotions, and emotions were a distant thing, just one of those wispy blurry shadows the outside world consisted of while he was invisible and that he could outrun if he ran fast enough. 

Bilbo barged into his home and went straight to Frodo’s room, and then he felt his heart lurch through the floor when he found it empty. _Taken!He’s been taken from you!_  

“No,” Bilbo gasped aloud. “He’s with the Gamgees for the night. With the Gamgees. I remember.” He doubled over, bracing himself with hands on his knees, and tried to get a hold of himself. “Think, Bilbo, you fool! Think!” 

He could hear strange whispers in the back of his mind: _They all despise you. You don’t belong here. You are not safe. They will come to rob you. They will take from you everything you hold... precious._

Bilbo covered his ears. He felt a twinge in his heart, somewhere deep and dark, something that was hidden there trying to wake up and agree with that voice, to go and find the old bedroll and oilskin and flint, to gird himself with Sting and grab Frodo and _run, while there’s still time_. But the good Hobbit in him grew stronger with each calming breath, and worked hard to dispel those disturbing thoughts as soon as they emerged. Where would they go, anyway? To Rivendell? What life would that be for a Hobbit fauntling? Frodo loved the Shire, its gentle rolling hills and little rivers. Bilbo couldn’t do that to him. 

He collapsed in the middle of his parlour, curled up into a ball on the carpet and hid his face. What he was to do? 

“Bilbo? Are you in here?” 

Thorin closed the green door behind him and stopped in the hallway, peeking through the half-opened door. His eyes skimmed the room, only half-lit by a night lamp burning low on a table, and as he withdrew to look elsewhere, Bilbo realised that he was still wearing his ring. He took it off, exhaling loudly as the solid world hit him once more, and Thorin froze mid-turn. 

“There you are! I didn’t see you in the shadows.” 

The memory rose so vividly that Bilbo shuddered and had to take a deep breath to calm down his stomach. No dragons here. This was Thorin, and his voice was gentle, caring, and right now, a little worried. 

Bilbo collected himself as much as he could. He got up, straightened his clothes, wiped away the cold sweat running down the sides of his face, and went over to the fireplace to make a fire; the familiar motions of snapping twigs in half and holding a match to some pine cones calming him further. Thorin watched him from his spot in the doorframe, as if he couldn’t be sure Bilbo wouldn’t bolt again if he took a step nearer. Or maybe he didn’t want to share a room with his once-friend any more, with the way he was deceived. All the feelings kept at bay by the Ring crept up on Bilbo at last and he swallowed against the bile rising in his throat. A thief and a _liar,_ after all. 

“I corroborated your story,” Thorin said, arms crossed in front of his chest, his face dark and half-hidden in the shadow of the hair falling from his brow. 

“Did you?” It came out more as a squeak than a question, Bilbo’s throat too constricted with bitter guilt to force words through. It was out of pity Thorin spoke up for him, of course. Why else? Bilbo _wanted_ him to say that, begged him to hold up the façade, and yet – hearing that detached, matter-of-fact way Thorin spoke of that lie had hurt. Oh, how much had it hurt. 

“It wasn’t my story,” Bilbo felt the need to say, unable to meet Thorin’s eyes. He waved his hand in the universal direction of outdoors. “They all just... assumed, and I never corrected them.” 

“Why would they assume such a thing?” The tone of the Dwarven king was level, words measured, and voice set low, as it usually was when Thorin was angry. Bilbo realised that Thorin was probably disgusted. Of course. He was a Dwarf. 

And that was why he deserved an explanation, so Bilbo put on a timid smile and began: “We Hobbits – we just don’t live together unmarried, you know? It just isn’t done. It’s not decent.” He sniffed at the contradiction. For Thorin, the idea of two males or females bound in marriage must have been the pinnacle of indecency. 

“And as you might have noticed, our marriages aren’t as... limited, as you know them. So when you arrived here, my neighbours saw you entering my smial as if it belonged to you – I _know_ I said ‘don’t bother knocking,’ I know – and then you promptly fell into my bed–” 

Bilbo’s eyes widened when his mind caught up with his mouth and he lifted both hands: “Sick! I mean, fell into bed sick! You were unwell, of course. And they all just... jumped to a conclusion.” 

“Had I but known, I would have never brought such a disgrace upon you,” Thorin said in earnest and Bilbo nodded to himself sadly. Disgrace, that was how Thorin saw it. 

“And then there was that thrice damned book of mine,” Bilbo admitted further, “everyone’s read it, and we Hobbits are very romantic at heart, and I hadn’t realised until recently that for them, it was basically a love story.” 

“How did _they_ see it?” 

Something about the phrasing of that question was wrong but Bilbo was too crushed by the loss of his hopes to analyse it properly. 

“See it like that?” he laughed without mirth. “Apparently, I did an awful lot of un-Hobbity things there...” 

Thorin was silent for a long while. 

“I’m truly sorry,” Bilbo said at last, “for using you like that.” 

“I must ask of you,” Thorin began cautiously, “was it purely for Frodo’s benefit that you’ve been upholding the lie?” 

Why was Thorin asking that? Was he giving Bilbo a chance to justify his behaviour at least in this small way? Thorin knew the importance of family better than any other. Perhaps he was willing to forgive his friend if he believed Bilbo had been acting selflessly, solely on behalf of an orphaned boy in need of home. 

But Bilbo’s already lost much this evening, and deep down, he at least wished to lose honourably. So he lifted his chin, closed his eyes and forced the truth out. 

“Not just because of that. I wanted it– I wished it true. I love you, Thorin, I– I can't help it. That’s why I left Erebor, when I knew that we could never be. I’ll never speak of it again, if you wish–” 

Strong hands gripped him by the shoulders and all but swept him off his feet. Snapping his eyes open, Bilbo found himself staring into fierce blue eyes, and his heart leapt at the sight, because this was the face of the Dwarf tossing away his sword to save Bilbo from being ripped apart, this was the Dwarf who flung himself over the edge of the cliff to pull Bilbo from certain death – it was the purposeful, determined, consequences-be-damned face of that Dwarf who set out against all odds to reclaim his homeland. It was the Thorin Bilbo fell in love with, and he was currently kissing him, too hard and all too briefly, with a jab of that proud nose narrowly avoiding Bilbo’s eye, his greying hair tickling the Hobbit’s nose, and altogether the best thing Bilbo had ever felt. 

“I don’t know what I am doing,” Thorin admitted when he carefully put Bilbo back on the ground and pulled him into a tight embrace, “but for the first time in many years I feel like I am doing something right.” 

Bilbo was too stunned to say anything, so he sneaked his arms around Thorin’s waist and held on for dear life. 

“I didn’t believe you would ever want this,” Thorin’s breath tickled Bilbo’s ear and shivers ran down Bilbo’s spine when he felt the pointed tip of his other ear traced by a calloused fingertip. 

Trying to refrain from being obvious and lobbing those very words back at Thorin, Bilbo let go of his inner restraints and opted for full – if perhaps shocking – disclosure. 

“I think I wanted this from the moment I laid my eyes on you.” Then he smirked. “At least until you opened your mouth to call me a grocer.” 

Thorin caged his face in his broad palms and bent down for another kiss, again just a press of lips on lips, sweet and honest. The moment passed all too soon in Bilbo’s opinion and then Thorin was straightening again and lifting one hand to rub at the back of his neck – and Bilbo realised, with growing feeling of exhilaration, that in saying that he didn’t know what he was doing, Thorin was quite possibly being literal. 

Apparently, Dwarven courtships had some _very_ strict rules. 

Bilbo deliberately sent his quite exhausted Baggins side to retire for the night, leaned up on his toes, grabbed Thorin’s head, tilted it just right, and let his Tookish side take over the next kiss, bringing into play every bit of experience he’d gathered during those half-hearted courtships in his past. But his victory was short-lived, for Thorin wasn’t the leader of his people for nothing: all is fair in love and war, they say, and Thorin might not have had much experience with love, but in war he knew no rival. He was learning fast and soon Bilbo found himself backed against the wall and kissed within an inch of his life, and damn him if he was complaining. 

There was much talking to be done later, Bilbo thought absently as they somehow navigated their way to his bedroom, like the matter of Thorin’s necessary, if temporary, return to Erebor, and whether little Frodo could stand the journey, but that was for later. Now he had a bed full of Dwarf, only this time said Dwarf was perhaps a bit dazed, but otherwise very much healthy and strong, and quite intent on proving so.  

Afterwards they lay together, Thorin running his fingers through Bilbo’s curls as if he still couldn’t believe he was allowed to, when suddenly his hand stilled and he muttered something in Khuzdul. With the guttural quality of that language, it could have been just as much an endearment as a swearword, but seeing the scowl on Thorin’s face, Bilbo suspected the latter. 

“I didn’t even get to court you,” Thorin groaned. 

Bilbo propped himself up on an elbow and gave him a thoroughly unimpressed look. 

“You’re serious? You gave me a silver-steel shirt of immeasurable worth, you wrote me sad pining poems  - yeah, Gandalf told me about that, by the way – you kept writing me letters filled with praise that would make a cave troll swoon and you’ve travelled across half of Middle Earth to visit me in my humble hobbit-hole, for what? As a _token of friendship?!_ You _were_ courting me, Thorin, even though you didn’t know it, and if I hear one more word about friendship, I swear to Valar, I’ll smother you in your sleep–” 

“You courted me back,” Thorin said quietly and there went another of Bilbo’s temporary victories. “That song of the newly-weds. Milo Burrows sends his thanks.” Thorin was tracing something on Bilbo’s naked back, something that felt like runes, and it distracted Bilbo from protesting. “You wrote that song, didn’t you? ‘Water smoothens stone’ – I thought those were unusual lyrics for a Hobbit song. You wrote it for us.” 

“What a pair of fools we’ve been,” Bilbo sighed. It had hurt, once, being on the receiving end of attention and gifts that from anyone else would have meant courtship, all the time thinking that it would never mean to Thorin what it meant to Bilbo because that Thorin’s motivation couldn’t be intentionally romantic, even though subconsciously it might have been. But as he held his palm against the steady thrum of heartbeat in the warm body next to him, Bilbo vowed never to speak of that hurt. It was a huge leap of faith for Thorin, to surrender to the desires he didn't think he could have, and it was worth the wait. 

Thorin wound a strand of Bilbo’s hair on his finger. 

“It was a very long and proper courtship.” 

“Worthy of a King,” Bilbo agreed. 

“I’m glad you accepted.” 

“I’m glad you noticed,” Bilbo grumbled and Thorin tackled him into the pillows. 

 

*

 

“Bilbo?” 

“Hmmm?” 

“I’ve thought up a new ending for your book.” 

Bilbo groaned. “If I never hear of my book again it will be too soon–” 

“And _they_ lived happily ever after, until the end of their days,” Thorin declared and interlaced their fingers, kissing one knuckle after another. “How does that sound?” 

Bilbo smiled, love growing in him like an acorn sprouting, fresh green leaves unfurling and eagerly drinking in the Spring sun, strong and full of warmth after a long Winter at last. “I can work with that.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is it - the end! This fic, of course, wouldn't exist without Mildred Bobbin, and if you folks want to thank her for it, drop by and read her amazing Hobbit fix-it "We Must Awake" - it's gorgeous!

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are blessing and would be much appreciated. I am still unsure about how I shall be faring in a new fandom:)


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